


Happy X-mas (War is Over)

by The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon typical death and violence mentioned (past), Christmas Fluff, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon/pseuds/The_Leafy_Sea_Dragon
Summary: Draco and Harry are both struggling with adapting to post-war life, hiding away from the world in their respective homes. An old friend watches over them and in the last months leading up to Christmas, decides to interfere in an attempt to get them out of their downward spirals, and back out into the world.Ghosts will visit, futures will be seen, trees will be decorated, and perhaps new friendships--or more-- will be made.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 95





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is *loosely* based on A Christmas Carol, and much like that one, this starts out a bit gloomy, but the Christmas fluff will come, I promise.  
> I wasn't 100% sure about rating and tags, so please, please, let me know if you reckon I need to change/add anything. 
> 
> There will be a few, brief segments written in 2pers POV-- INCLUDING the Prologue-- and if that isn't your cuppa  
> ( I know many hate it) just go ahead and skip it! **The rest, like 99.8 %, will be 3rd person POV.**
> 
> I've written all the chapters already, but some need more editing than others, and I'll post as soon as I get them done, they should all be out by Christmas! 
> 
> Love kudos and comments, they warm my little fanfic-heart.  
> Thank you for reading!

_”There’s ancient magic that weakens the barrier between the dead and the living on the night of Halloween. I can give you more time, but no longer than the Winter Solstice. It won’t bring you back to life, but it’ll give you a chance to communicate with some of them. It’s not something I do lightly, but there’s no other way. He saved the world, now you have to save him.”_

_His blue eyes are just as intelligent in death as they were in life. There’s a sadness in them too. Guilt. And yet, they’re twinkling while he gives you this impossible task._

_”How?” You ask, feeling the desperation creeping into your voice._

_He explains what you need to do, but what he tells you is insane. How could he possibly think that_ this _was a solution? They loathe each other!_

_You have always suspected that the old man was a bit mad, and here’s the proof. So you repeat the question, hoping for a different answer, ”How?”_

_The answer is different, but then, perhaps the question was too? You have another 300_ hows _and_ whats _to ask him, after all._

_”With this I cannot help you, the only thing I know for certain is that to save one is to save the other, to fail one is to lose both.” He pauses, waiting for further questions. You have so many that you don’t know where to begin._

_”You have until midnight on Winter Solstice, by the twelfth stroke of the bell the magic will break, your chance of saving them over.”_

_And then he is gone._

_No, you are._


	2. All Hallow’s Eve

_You don’t know how to do this so for days on end you visit them, follow them around, watch them sleep, watch their dreams. Peer inside of their heads to try and get a glimpse of their wants and needs._

_Harry’s mind was near impenetrable, and you find yourself watching the Malfoy-heir instead, wondering how you can use him to solve your problem._

_If it wasn’t all so sad you’d be furious with the old nutcase for putting you up to this._

_***_

Draco Malfoy looked at the people rushing by him with a sneer on his face. He hated everything about Christmas, especially when the world insisted it start before Halloween was even over. He hated the lights, the foods, the presents. Most of all, he hated Christmas Carols, especially in October—it was bloody Samhain, after all!

It wasn’t always like this, but what did he have now? Who did he have to shop for? To have Christmas dinner with? His parents were as good as dead, rotting away in a cell in Azkaban. And for what? A war that was essentially his father’s, forced on Draco and his mother?

His friends were dead, or some of them were. The rest might as well have been, all turning their backs on him after the war. Draco didn’t even have colleagues, as he didn’t have a job. He didn’t have to work, after all—and who in their right mind would hire him anyway?

Draco’s thoughts had gotten away with him and he didn’t watch his step.

”Ooof.” He’d walked straight into someone. Or rather, he thought annoyed, someone had walked straight into him. Hands were grappling his shoulders, instinctively trying to keep them both from toppling over.

”Watch where you’re going,” Draco spat out, looking haughtily at the hands creasing the fabric of his expensive coat. Familiar hands, he realised. Slowly, with an ominous feeling, he looked up at the person in front of him and stiffened. _Potter_. Of-bloody-course.

Draco left his house for the first time in weeks, and of course he bumped in to Potter. Of-fucking-course.

He wanted to say something scathing, but instead Draco looked into Potter’s face and shied away from the dead look in his eyes. Potter snarled at him and walked away.

***

Harry Potter had not adjusted well to life and world after the war was over. He’d seen too much death, lost too much. And now it was as if he could not stop pushing everything and everyone away. 

Everybody still wanted a piece of the Golden Boy, he just wanted to be left alone.

Ron and Hermione had left for Australia soon after the Battle of Hogwarts. They were going to see her parents, see if they could reverse the spell somehow, bring back their real memories. They’d asked him to come with them but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was so, so tired.

That was over a year ago, almost a year and a half. He was still exhausted. And angry. There was so much anger simmering inside him, threatening to spill out at any time. He was angry with the incompetent Ministry, with the entire adult Wizarding world who’d put the weight of the war on the shoulders of teenagers.

If they’d only listened in the beginning, so much could have been different. If he’d only had to fight Voldemort and not Voldemort _and_ the Ministry things would have been very different.

Maybe Sirius would still be alive, maybe Dumbledore would too. And Fred. And Tonks, and Remus, and Dobby. And so many others lost to the war.

Harry clenched his fists, nails digging in to the palms of his hands. What’s the point? He breathed through the pain, while pushing the anger deeper inside until he felt nothing. 

Harry had been numb for months, during the days he felt nothing cause he didn’t allow himself too, during the nights he didn’t feel anything because of the increasing amount of _Dreamless Sleep_ he took before bed.

But then today he’d bumped into Malfoy, of all people, and there had been a spark there. A spark of familiar and all encompassing rivalry, completely different from the bitter resentment he felt for the rest of the Wizarding world. He’d felt it flickerdeep in his gut, and now he tried to hold on to it desperately, by picturing that pointed, sneering face, remembering their past clashes—because it meant that, perhaps, he wasn’t dead inside after all.

What Harry felt for Malfoy wasn’t hatred—he’d learned the proper definition of that over the past few years. No, what he felt was plain, schoolboy antagonism. He didn’t want to kill Malfoy, he wanted to push his face in the mud with one hand as he caught the Snitch with the other.

He didn’t want Malfoy to suffer more than he already had, but fuck if he didn’t want to best him at something. Seeing him had reminded Harry about the rush of beating that prancing idiot at Quidditch, or winning a duel. The satisfaction of wiping the smirk right off his smug, pointy face.

Then he remembered a duel he’d won in a bathroom, blood covering the floor, and he rose to fetch a glass and a half-drunk bottle of Fire-Whiskey, to help him to push his memories deep yet again, shove Malfoy from his brain.

Harry stared deep into his glass, October 31st would always be a day filled with mixed emotions for him. It was the day his world had been turned upside down. It was the day his parents had been killed, murdered by a dark wizard. It was the day he had survived Voldemort for the first time.

It was also a day he used to love at Hogwarts. The feast, the food, the music, Hagrid’s enormous pumpkins.

And now it was a day where the veil was thin and the hope of seeing anyone he’d lost, if just for the day, was ever-present.

Harry sighed and took another sip of whiskey, then froze. He thought he’d heard a noise, but no, probably just the house settling.

He was wallowing, he’d been wallowing for a year in the gloomy rooms of Grimauld Place. He quite liked it—anything to keep him away from the soul-sucking witches and wizards of the world—and it didn’t require trousers.

Somedays he even contemplated moving back into the Muggle world, leaving all of this behind, just to get away. To escape. To have his life back. Harry just wished that he wasn’t so goddamned recognisable. That he could go outside—buy a bottle of milk, have a cup of fucking coffee—without people tugging at his clothes, asking for photos, autographs, marriage. 

He downed his drink and then stiffened again, _that_ was definitely a sound, a creak, a whisper. Perhaps it was just Kreacher, but no, this _felt_ different, as if someone was in the room with him. But he was alone. Goosebumps rose along his arms, crept up along his back. He thought he heard his name, and then, there was nothing.

He refilled his glass and relaxed, once again sinking deep into the dark corners of his own brain, wishing he was somewhere else. Someone else. 

***

The hair at the back of Draco Malfoy’s neck stod up, icy tingles travelled down along his spine. Someone, or _something_ , was in his room. It was pitch black and he reached for his wand. ”Lumos.” The light flickered and went out. He tried again, ”Lumos.” Nothing.

There was a scraping noise at the door—no from under the bed—no from the window.

Draco’s pulse was racing now, the fear leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He swallowed, his tongue dry and sandy, sticking to the roof of his mouth. Something moved in the corner of his eye.

”Lumos.” This time the tip of his wand lit up and stayed lit. There was no one there. Shakily he lowered his wand again. Maybe he’d been dreaming. Imagining things. Draco’s nightmares were vivid and plentiful. More often than not he woke up screaming. But there was never anyone thereto hear him. No one to comfort him, to tell him it was just a dream. No one to drown out that cold, sneering voice that rang in his head as he woke up. No one to tell him that the pain wasn’t real, that it was just a memory. No one to dry his tears.

The noises had stopped, what ever it was gone. For now.

Draco put his head back down on the pillow, wand lit and eyes open. He didn’t sleep again that night.


	3. Ghost of Christmas Past

_You don’t know how to reach Harry, too far gone down the slippery slope of bitterness and survivor’s guilt. He couldn’t even see you when you went to talk to him. So you’ll listen to the old nutter’s advice and start with the other one. Perhaps you can stretch the truth a little, trick him into becoming co-rescuer rather than another person for you to save. You are a great trickster after all._

_An idea starts to form in your head and you decide to visit him, show him what their lives used to be like. Remind him of happier time, remind him of what they’ve both lost._

_***_

Draco Malfoy sat bolt upright in his bed ripped from fitful dreams by a noise, heart drumming away in his chest.

There it was again, that scratching noise. Ice trickled through his veins, down his spine. He wasn’t imagining things, someone was here. He reached for his wand but just as his fingers closed around it, icy fingers closed around his wrist, and Draco let out a high-pitched screech, terror twisting his insides.

He needed to see his assailant—or did he, maybe he was better of not knowing, maybe reality was worse than his imagination. But no, you can’t fight an unknown enemy.

”Lumos.” The tip of the wand lit up on the first try, and to his horror a face was hovering centimeters from his own. He screamed again, but knew that no one would hear him.

An evil cackle turned into mischievous laughter, which stunned Draco enough to stop yelling and look closer at the horrible face.

The face grinned at him, a grin he knew from before. A shit-eating grin surrounded by freckles. Fred Weasley’s ghost peered down at him.

”Weasley?” Was all he got out, his voice a faint sound.

”Ferret-face,” Fred greeted, jovial. ”Did I scare you? I’m terribly sorry, I really didn’t mean to.”

His smug tone and face implied differently.

”I’m sure you didn’t,” Draco answered sourly. Now that he no longer feared for his life the annoyance of being haunted in his own home—by a Weasley, nonetheless— had caught up with him. And so had the humiliation of being scared half to death. He cringed at the memory of his screeches. ”Why are you haunting me?”

”I’m on a mission.”

”A mission?” Draco asked suspiciously. ”Doing what? For whom?” A thought struck Draco, ”Are you here to kill me?”

Ghost-Fred grinned, ”Nope.And: Top secret. Ha! If I tell you I _do_ have to kill you.”

Draco glared at him, he didn’t trust him but he didn’t feel threatened either. ”Aren’t you a little smug for a ghost?”

Fred cackled again, ”Ghosts make the best pranksters, Dickface, so no.” Draco made a mental note to owl an exorcist first thing in the morning.

”Actually,” Fred’s face was serious all of a sudden, an expression Draco had never seen on either of the twins’ faces, ”I’ve got lives to save and you will help me save them. My mission is your mission, compadre.” _Compadre?_

”You’ve been chosen. No one else can reach him.”

Against his better judgement, Draco found that he was a little curious. But he wasn’t a hero, he reminded himself. He was the villain, and everybody in the Wizarding world seemed to go out of their way to make sure he didn’t forget. The spark that had ignited was rapidly snuffed out by gloomy thoughts. What was the point?

”Sod off. I’m not interested in your mission.”

Fred threw his head back and laughed, ”As if you have a choice, mate, the order isn’t from me.”

Well, this was unsettling, Draco thought. ”Then from who? And who are we saving?”

Fred only shook his head, ”Come on, I’ve something to show you.”

Fred reached out and Draco was suddenly flooded with cold. The world had gone dark and misty around him. They walked down an empty street lined only with obscure silhouettes. Draco thought they might be houses, or trees, he couldn’t tell.

Fred stopped and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. It was as if a large window had been lit up, letting them peer inside. The rest of the endless street was still shrouded in darkness.

Draco looked through the window—but it wasn’t _quite_ a window either—he was standing outside looking in, but at the same time he was there, inside, almost as when using a Pensive.

What he saw made his breath catch. His mother, young and lovely, sat in a chair by the fire. A five-year-old Draco snuggled in her lap while she read him a Yule-tide story. Draco remembered that day: the story, the scent of his mother’s perfume, the cocoa she’d made him.

The scene blurred a little, and this time another Draco was there. He was a little older, maybe seven or eight, and he sat by the tree looking at the wrapped presents, excitement glinting in his eyes.

And there he was again, older still. Home from Hogwarts, bragging to his father about Quidditch games he’d won, impossible moves he’d made to catch the Snitch.

The window went dark, and when Draco didn’t move Fred tugged on his sleeve. They started walking again.

As soon as Fred stopped a new window lit up. Draco didn’t recognise the place, nor the people. Until a small boy with unruly dark hair and round glasses waddled into the room. He cast a longing glance at the presents under the tree. But none were for him.

Then a fat man with an enormous moustache yelled at a slightly older Potter during Christmas dinner, Draco didn’t quite understand why. Potter was sent to his room—no, to his _cupboard_ —his dinner left unfinished.

Potter was watching his cousin eat all the Christmas sweets, open all the presents, even steal the pudding right from under his nose. His eyes a little sadder with every Christmas that passed.

The window went dark and they moved on. Fred was walking with his hands in his pockets, carefully studying Draco. Draco could feel it, but pretended he didn’t notice.

”Sad, huh?”

Draco didn’t know what to say, but ”sad” didn’t even begin to cover it. Potter hadn’t received as much as a kind word during his Christmases, and Draco suspected the same went for the rest of the year, as well.

”I didn’t know,” he said quietly. Fred didn’t say anything, they kept walking in silence for another few minutes until Fred said, ”This is our last stop for today.”

They were back at Hogwarts, Harry and Ron were just waking up. There was a small pile of gifts by Potter’s bed, gifts he hadn’t been expecting by the looks of it.

Draco realised that he was probably watching Potter open his first present ever. He stood there watching him eat fudge and talk excitedly with Ron.

The twins entered, joking about their new jumpers. Ghost-Fred’s expression turned wistful.

The window went dark and suddenly they were back at the Manor again. Standing right by the fireplace where his mother had been reading to him all those years ago. Draco’s insides did something complicated and then to his horror he started to cry. He felt angry, humiliated, sad. And confused, because why was he so upset?

Draco whirled on Fred, ”Why did you show me all of that? Are you trying to hurt me? Gloat at my pain? Laugh at my crying?” His voice was bitter and scathing, but it alway was these days.

Fred remained calm, ”No. I showed you this because you needed reminding that everything didn’t always suck Hippogriff’s arse. And that even if it does right now, everything doesn’t have to suck Hippogriff’s arse until the end of time.” He sounded annoyed.

Draco’s anger was rising, ”Who put you up to this?”

Weasley ignored him. ”Do you understand who it is we’re trying to save?”

”Yes,” Draco muttered, ”Bloody Potter. Because it’s always about bloody fucking Potter, isn’t it?” 

Fred’s look was pitying, ”We’re actually saving two lives, Ferret-boy. Think about it.” He gave Draco a quick once-over and added, ”You look like you could use some sleep. See ya.”

”Wait! ” Draco yelled, ”Who put you up to this?” But there was no one there. He was alone.


	4. It wasn't a dream

_How is this ever going to work? You need more time, a lot more._

_Frustrated you curse the inconvenient dramatics of ancient magic, the ridiculous power of dates, times, and numbers. Of stars and planets._

_You’re dead, how can you possibly be running out of time?_

_***_

It was all a dream. It was all a dream. It was all a dream. It was all a dream.

Draco lay in his bed, eyes firmly closed, and wished for the night’s adventures to be nothing but another of his horrible dreams. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make it true. It wasn’t a dream.

How was this his life now? Saving Harry Potter from— what, exactly? Friends and fame? A shit childhood?— ordered around by a Weasley-ghost and an unknown…person? Magical entity?

Draco groaned and put the pillow over his face, screamed into it.

He should have protested more firmly, insisted to know who was in control. Had he even asked what would happen if he refused to help? No, he had barely argued, and then followed Weasley down the darkened road like a brainless crup, no questions asked. Next time he’d simply refuse.

But, he thought with a sinking feeling, he didn’t think that was an option at all. Because how was he supposed to stop a ghost from entering every part of his life?

He pressed the pillow harder against his face, screamed a little more, until he was out of breath. Then he flung it across the room, accidentally knocking over a jug of water. Bloody marvellous.

The Christmas memories had woken something in him. He missed that part of his old life, the simplicity and carefreeness, his parents. He even missed that old, happier version of himself, if that were possible.

And then he’d seen ten years worth of miserable Christmases before Potter’s first happy one, which had awakened something else. Something Draco did not feel like examining too closely.

A few years after the first happy Hogwarts Christmas was when things had started to go sour for Draco—he did _not_ miss that part of his life. Nothing says Happy Holidays like having the Dark Lord in your house, he thought darkly. Plotting war, torturing Muggles and wizards alike.

Draco wasn’t sure what to do with all he had seen, how to process it. He wasn’t sure if— _how_ —he could possibly help save Harry Potter. And from what? Were ghosts always so annoyingly vague and imprecise?

Potter had saved him, he reminded himself. More than once. He’d even vouched for him at the trials. Draco had no idea why, they hadn’t spoken to each other then, Potter hadn’t even bothered to look at him.

Draco hated to admit it, even to himself, but he supposed he owed Potter to at least try.

But what could _he_ possibly do? And how had Weasley and his boss (Draco didn’t know what to call him—Her? Them? It?—so boss would have to do for now…) thought that Draco would be the right person to get to Potter? _Reach_ him, Fred had said. Was he supposed to pull him from a ledge or something? Where were Ron Weasley and the Granger girl, Potter’s best friends, in all this? How was Draco supposed to pull Potter from a burning building if he was never around him—which he wasn’t! But Fred had been adamant about this, it had to be Draco. As if it were prophesied or something.

Annoyed Draco got out of bed and vanished the spilt water.

He supposed that if he couldn’t figure something else out he’d have to go to Potter and just straight up tell him about this haunting business and hope that he’d save himself. Stay vigilant, or what ever, since Draco hadn’t found out what the real threat was yet.

But Ghost-Fred had said that they were saving _two_ lives, perhaps next time he’d tell him whothe other person was and somehow that would give him another clue. Draco wasn’t hopeful. Merlin, he hoped it wasn’t the Weaslette. Ugh. Draco would grab Potter and leave her to drown, or burn, or fall of a cliff—which ever it was. Draco couldn’t put his finger on it but something about her irritated him to no end.


	5. The Ghost of Christmas Present

_Your first visit had gone better than you’d expected—you’re in his head now, things are stirring—but you still don’t trust the plan. Perhaps this night will do the trick, rattle this little pure-blood bastard a little._

_You’ve decided to show him the present._

_***_

”I was really hoping you wouldn’t be back,” Draco muttered. ”Couldn’t you at least come before I go to bed? Or after lunch?”

Ghost-Fred rolled his eyes. ”Are we going to do this the easy way or the Malfoy-way? The end result will be the same, but one will give you more hours to sleep.”

Draco scowled at him, this was a clear lose-lose situation for him and he decided to keep his mouth shut. 

”So, have you figured out who the second person is yet?” Draco had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach that said that _yes he had_ , but his brain refused to acknowledge it.

”Well, I’m guessing it isn’t you.” He put as much venom into the words as he could muster, but was met with a grin.

”Ding! Ding! Ding! Correct! 10 points to Slytherin.” This ginger ghost was really starting to grate on Draco’s nerves.

”Just tell me!”

”I can do better than that, I can show you.”

”Visiting someone else’s horrible memories today then?” Draco tried to sound indifferent, but his voice sounded wrong, flat. The memories of the last visit too fresh in his mind, the bitterness of all he’d lost too acrid.

”No, today I’m showing you—drumroll— the present.” Fred shouted out the last two words as if he were working for the Circus, presenting an exciting acrobatic number or possibly a creature that could eat the whole audience in one big gulp. Draco did not find Fred’s showmanship exuberance reassuring.

”I will show you what it is like today and what Christmas will be like this year.”

Fred reached for Draco who again was flooded with cold, and like last time the world had gone dark and misty around him. They walked down the empty street quietly, side by side, their steps echoing ominously.

Ghost-Fred stopped in what looked like a Muggle neighbourhood, a large window opened in one of the walls revealing Saint Potter. 

”We went through this yesterday,” Draco said sourly, ”I know Potter is one of them, stop wasting my time.”

”Shut up, Ferret-boy.”

Draco scowled at him and then turned to look at the scene infront of him. Everything seemed to be moving ten times faster than reality.

Potter was sprawled face down on the sofa, an empty bottle of Dreamless Sleep next to him.

Potter was sitting on the sofa for hours on end, staring blankly at the wall.

Potter was hurling things at the wall, breaking anything he could get his hands on.

Potter looked at old pictures and cried. He screamed only to assume that dull, dead look seconds after.

Potter refused to talk to anyone who called, sending them away, if he even bothered opening the door at all. Refused to answer mail. Even the one from Ron and Hermione. Draco had never seen him like this, it made him feel hollow. Helpless.

It was Christmas morning, a small pile of presents were at the foot of Potter’s bed when he woke up. He glanced at them, but reached for the Dreamless Sleep instead, and went back to sleep the holiday away.

The scene darkened, the window was gone and they were yet again facing a solid wall. Fred started trudging down the dark street ahead of him.

Draco didn’t want to follow. He wanted to, well, he didn’t know what he wanted to do, but there was something coiling in his chest, uncomfortable and suffocating, urging him to do something. _Merlin’s_ _balls_.

Draco stared at the spot where he’d seen Potter for a bit longer, and at last he turned and followed Fred down the street.

The building he faced was familiar, too familiar. Draco’s stomach twisted, he knew what he was about to see but he wasn’t prepared for how bad it would be.

The scene lit and there he was, sitting in an armchair in a semi-dark room. Draco barely recognised himself. He looked the same as he did in the mirror, but at the same time, this was completely different. In the mirror he didn’t see the defeated curve to his shoulders, he didn’t see the hollowness in his face, the haunted look in his eyes. How lonely he was.

Draco watched himself wake up screaming over and over and over again. He watched himself shy away from strangers in the street. Watched as he avoided eye contact in the shops.

The taunts from Anti-Death Eaters were terrible, but deserved, Draco thought he could live with them. The hatred he received from former Death Eaters was worse, it scared him because one day they might rise again and then they’d come from him. _Traitor_.

It was Christmas morning, there was no pile of gifts at the foot of Draco’s bed. There was no one at the Breakfast table. He had dinner by himself by the fire, the silence deafening. He looked at old photos and wept.

Again, they were back in his living room without warning, thrown from the vision to reality. Draco wiped at his eyes.

”I still don’t understand, why are you showing me all of this?”

”You saw him, he needs help.”

”Then why aren’t you spending you time with him?”

”He won’t listen to me, he won’t talk to anyone—he can’t even see me. He doesn’t want the fame, or the pity. He’s bitter and alone. Like you.”

”Well, when you put it like that.” Draco said sarcastically. ”Fuck you.”

Fred grinned, gave him the two finger-salute and vanished. Fucking ghosts.

”You still haven’t shown me the other person!” Draco shouted out into the empty room. _Fucking ghosts._ Draco reached for the closest thing he could see, and old vase, and hurled it at where Fred had stood just moments before. It flew into the fireplace and broke with a satisfying crash. Draco felt all the anger seep out of him, he felt tired and defeated. Exhausted.

Well there was no point beating around the bush anymore now was it, he’d just have to go pay Potter a fucking visit. Maybe that’d put an end to this haunting. Draco sighed, it was not going to be pleasant. But at least he knew where to find him.


	6. Cold November Rain

_You keep a close eye on them. Watching for any progress, any change. Nothing happens. But then…_

_***_

He’s not my responsibility, Draco told himself. He has friends, a family, let them sweep up the broken pieces of Harry-bleeding-Potter. Draco has no one. But the thought of Potter, battered and broken won’t leave him alone. Draco recalls the dead look in Potter’s eyes when he bumped into him the week before. A look he felt mirrored in his own. But Draco is not a hero.

The real hero is fading, slowly descending the dark spiral of sleeping draughts, bitterness, guilt and past trauma, getting further down by the day, until finally he won’t be able to come back up.

It had been as if he could hear Potter’s thoughts when he stood there watching him through the window in wall. Or perhaps Draco just recognised his own suffering on Potter’s face.

Potter had saved the world but the world could not be bothered to save him. He had died for them, and yet they still wanted more. Take take take.

Well, what is Draco suppose to do about it anyway, the world doesn’t care about him either. It only wants him to suffer. Suffer suffer suffer. Pay for his crimes, and his father’s.

With an irritated scoff he got out of his chair, before he changed his mind. He got dressed, carefully choosing his outfit. If Potter was going to kill him he’d rather die in a nice robe than dressed in his old pyjamas.

Draco apparated to Potter’s street, rain pouring down, the dull greyness mirroring Draco’s mood perfectly. He glanced around the street looking for the right house, hoping it wouldn’t show itself so that Draco could go back home, forget about this whole thing.

When number twelve finally squeezed its way out from between its neighbours, Draco strode up to the door and knocked resolutely, before his mind caught up with him.

He knew, based on what he’d seen last night, that a single knock wouldn’t do it, and pounded insistently on the door until he heard footsteps and muffled swearing from the other side.

Potter opened the door, annoyance turned disbelief turned anger, and then his face went blank.

”Malfoy.” Draco had lost his speech when Potter opened the door, he’d seen him in Diagon Alley, he’d visited him with Fred’s ghost, but the reality of the deadness in his eyes was still like a blow to his gut—because if the Golden-boy couldn’t cope with what was left after the war, how the hell was Draco supposed to?

Harry started closing the door in Draco’s face but Draco caught it and found his voice at the same time, ”We need to talk.”

”No, we don’t.” Potter’s words were clipped.

”Fine,” Draco said, annoyed,”I’ll talk, you’ll listen.”

Potter didn’t move, there was no way he’d let Draco into his house. Bloody fantastic.

Well, Draco refused to have this conversation standing outside, being soaked through by the icy November rain. So he took a shot.

”I’m being haunted by Fred Weasley’s ghost.” Potter’s face went slack, and his surprise lasted long enough for Draco to push open the door and squeeze through.

”I’ll have some tea, thanks.”

Potter smashed him up against the wall, forearm pushing against Draco’s throat. ”How dare you,” he roared. Draco tried to reach for his wand but Potter grabbed his arm and pinned it over his head, the pressure on Draco’s throat not easing.

I guess _this_ is how I die then, he thought. Fred-bloody-Weasley had lured him straight to his death. But then Draco managed a hard knee to Potter’s groin and just like that, he could breathe again.

”Merlin’s bloody balls,” Potter ground out where he was standing doubled over, trying to catch his breath. As a man, Draco felt sympathetic; as a man who’d just had his windpipe crushed, Draco distinctly did not feel sympathetic.

Draco touched his throat carefully. Then he ran a hand through his hair, putting it neatly back into place, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and strode past Potter, head held high, ”Like I said, I’ll have some tea, please. Sugar, no milk.”

Draco stepped in to the same room he’d seen in last night’s vision. It felt surreal. The place was a bit of a mess, but he’d known it would be. He’d seen Potter throw stuff around, hadn’t he?

He sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. Potter hovered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. In all this gloom and sadness Draco had almost forgotten how incredibly enervating he could be. Draco stared at him, Potter stared back. Draco scoffed, Potter snarled. _Fantastic_.

Impatiently Draco gestured at the sofa, ”Would you just sit your bloody arse down so we can get on with it?”

Potter stubbornly remained at the door, staring silently at Draco. Draco could feel a headache coming on. Irritated he snapped, ”I’m not here for my own pleasure, you know.”

”Why _are_ you here, Malfoy?” His voice scathing, but, Draco noted, not dead.

”I told you, and I’ve got more to tell you but not as long as you’re hovering over there like some unruly spirit.” Bad choice of words, Draco realised.

Merlin, this would go on forever, none of them would give in. Draco certainly wouldn’t. Nor would Pigheaded Potter.

He ignored Potter and conjured up a cup of tea for himself since Potter didn’t seem to have the manners to offer him one.

Potter looked on in disbelief, Draco continued ignoring him and sipped his tea, hellbent on waiting him out. He should have brought a book.

Incredibly enough, this tactic seemed to work because eventually Potter sat down on the sofa, glaring at Draco. Draco felt like he’d won, until he remembered why he was there. Right.

”Don’t attack me. Don’t hex me. Just, don’t. I’m only the messenger.” Potter’s stare was stony.

”Fred Weasley _is_ haunting me,” he put up his hand to stop Potter’s protests,” and it’s because of you.” Potter’s look changed, guilt? Surely not. But then Draco remembered: survivor’s guilt. Potter didn’t feel guilty over the hauntings he felt it over Fred’s death and his own survival.

”He’s showing me visions, and they’re all about you.”

”What?”

Draco finally had his attention and so he told Potter about the two visits, but he kept de details vague. He didn’t think Potter would appreciate how much Draco had seen and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him about the visions he’d seen of himself.

Potter still looked disbelieving, but he listened to all Draco had to say. When Draco finished Potter looked at him, eyes narrowed,”Why didn’t he come to me then? Why you?”

”Twisted sense of humour?” Draco said drily. Harry looked unimpressed. Draco sighed, ”He said he couldn’t reach you, that you were too…I don’t know, but he couldn’t get through to you, neither literally nor metaphorically, apparently. And his _Boss,”_ Draco spat the word out, _”_ thought _I_ could and so they _recruited_ me.” He scoffed and muttered, ”As if I had any say in the matter.”

Potter peered at him wondering, ”And this, no— _you_ —are somehow supposed to save my life? From what? How?”

Draco wanted to scream in frustration, ”I don’t know!”

”Is it another prophecy?”

”I. Don’t. Know.” Then he added, quietly, ”From what I’ve seen so far, you’re your own worst enemy.”

Harry didn’t protest this as Draco thought he would, but he didn’t comment either.

”You said it was two lives, who’s the other one?”

”None of your business.” Draco said cooly, and got up to leave. ”Now you know. It’d be grand if you could justgo ahead and save yourself.”

”I don’t need your help, Malfoy,” he spat.

Draco had to fight the sudden urge to place another hard knee between Potter’s legs, he didn’t exactly cherish this situation either.

”Fine, die then.”

Potter glared at him, green eyes flashing. It sent a familiar thrill through Draco, urging him to challenge Potter, fight him, duel him. Steal the House Cup from right under his giant, Gryffindor nose.

Draco turned on his heal and left the room without another word, robes billowing behind him. Potter’s house was apparition-proof and the Floo restricted, so he had to leave through the front door and Draco made a point of slamming it hard enough to rattle the walls on his way out.


	7. The Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending out some love to all of you who are still reading. <3

_Time is running out and nothing has changed. It’s time to up your game, just a little. Give that little blond twat the worst case scenario. Make him see sense. Take action. Set things in motion._

_***_

”I went to see him the other day. ”

”I know.”

”You know?”

”I see everything,” Fred said, solemnly. Then he grinned. Fucking Weasleys. No point in wasting time telling him how that went then.

”Let’s just get this over with,” Draco muttered.

Fred gasped and put a hand to his heart, ”Are you telling me you’re not enjoying our time together? You wound me, Ferret-face.” Draco just glared at him.

”Fine,” Fred shrugged, ”you might not enjoy tonight a whole lot anyway. I’m showing you the future.”

Draco’s already knotted stomach dropped into his dragon-hide shoes at these words. ”The future?”

”Well, the future like it looks now. You know as well as I do that these things change all the time. It’s what they should teach you in your first Divination class anyway. But,” Draco could hear the warning in Fred’s voice, ”this is what you’ll become if you don’t change the path you’re heading down. This is what Harry will face if you fail to help me help him.”

Draco’s heart pounded, how bad could it be? They’d been through hell already.

They walked down the dark road, the chill crept into Draco’s bones. Today there were no windows, Fred simply opened a gate and and led him through. It was too dark to see anything properly, the only thing Draco was aware of was the snowy grass he was walking on.

Then, suddenly, there were people standing infront of him. All clad in black and crying. They were standing around something, looking down. Draco craned his neck, trying to see what was on the ground. Or rather in the ground, he realised. They were looking down a grave.

Draco gasped and took a step back, quickly he looked around, seeing the gravestones surrounding him. How had he not noticed them before?

He looked at the faces and recognised a few, Granger, Ron, and a couple of Weasleys. McGonagall. A young man at the back, standing apart from the crowd, looking a bit like the cousin from Potter’s Christmas memories.

The reality of where Draco was hit him like the Hogwarts Express: he was at Potter’s funeral. He didn’t need to look at the gravestone for confirmation, he knew in his bones that Potter was in that coffin. In that grave.

And by the look of the still young faces of Weasley and Granger, it wasn’t far off, perhaps next year. Draco felt sick. Up until now he hadn’t quite believed Fred, he realised.

”What did he die from?” Draco’s voice was but a whisper.

Fred only shrugged, which angered Draco. ”Look, how the fuck am I supposed to save him from something if I don’t know what it is?” He was yelling now, but no one turned to look at him, they all remained still, white-faced and red-eyed, quietly crying by the grave.

Fred looked sad, ”It doesn’t matter if he took too much Dreamless Sleep one night and didn’t wake up when the fire alarm went off. Or if he started using more potent potions once the Dreamless Sleep wasn’t enough to keep his demons at bay, until he couldn’t do without them. Or if he just slipped in the tub one morning, cracked his head and went unnoticed for days, until it was too late—in the end it was the loneliness that got to him.”

Panic started to rise inside of Draco, this was so much harder than just rescuing him from drowning and be done with it. How would he cure Potter’s loneliness?

Even if Draco went to see him everyday Potter wouldn’t want— let alone enjoy—his company, he probably wouldn’t even let him in again.

Would Draco be forced to go see Potter’s friends and make them try harder? But, they already did try hard. Merlin, he was doomed.

Draco was roused from his ruminations when the scene dissolved and Fred started walking again. They were walking between stones covered in moss and grime, with names and epitaphs Draco couldn’t make out.

They finally stopped at another freshly dug grave. No one was there but the gravedigger, closing the hole while muttering to himself. Draco knew what the stone would say before he looked at it, his stomach still lurched when he read it:

_Draco Malfoy, 1980-2002._

Nothing else. 

His first thought was: I have two more years. Two more. The second thought was: _Only_ two years? He wasn’t ready to die so soon. He’d wasted so much time wallowing in his own misery, he wanted to see the world. Swim in the ocean. Play Quidditch again. He’d never even been properly kissed. He did not want to die.

To Draco’s horror, the gravedigger turned around and looked at them—no one had been able to see them before.

”Ach, didn’t see you there. A bit late for the funeral, but then again, no one was there for it anyway. I guess that what you get for being a Death Eater.” He spat into the grave. ”Did you know him well?”

Draco didn’t know what to say, so he shook his head, bile rising in his throat.

He didn’t want to know, but he did, but he didn’t. He swallowed hard, ”What did he die from?” Draco’s voice shook.

The gravedigger spat again, ”Don’t know, do I? But rumour has it someone cursed him, others say he did it to himself, took a potion. Either way, the world is rid another Death Eater. Good riddance I say.”

Draco started to back away, then turned and bolted, stomach heaving. He didn’t make it far before he had to stop and throw up. Heaving, his knees and hands hit the ground hard, throat burning withacid.

Drained and exhausted he sat down to the ground when there was nothing left to cough up, resting his back against one of the gravestones, snow soaking through his clothing. He didn’t care.

Fred stepped up next to him, hands in pockets.

”Have you finally understood whose life we’re saving, apart from Harry’s?”

Draco had cottoned on a few days ago, but like with so much else he’d refused to acknowledge it, but seeing it like this he could no longer deny it. He nodded slowly, his mind dazed. Finally he croaked out, ”How? How do I fix this?”

”I don’t know, mate, but you’ve gotta make some changes.” And then he was gone, and Draco was back at home, sitting on the floor, his back against a wall, eyes burning and a sour taste in his mouth.

Draco knew the answer was somewhere there in all that he had seen over the past few days, he needed to pull it all apart and put it back together in a way that made sense. He needed to solve this before it was too late, if it wasn’t already. But then again, if it was then why would Fred and his mysterious Boss have bothered showing him all of this in the first place? No, Draco had to believe that there was still time.

He needed to talk to Potter again. They needed to be civil to each other long enough to fix this, and Potter was going to have to pull his own weight.

Draco’s thoughts were too muddled—head filled with images from the graveyard, from past christmases, of Potter hurling things at his wall, screaming—he couldn’t think anymore. He was so very tired, too tired to stand up, to go to his bed. He just curled up on the hard floor where he’d been sitting in the living room, still wearing his cold, wet clothes, and cried himself to sleep.


	8. Funerals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but still angsty...Bear with me, the Fluff is just around the corner. Ish.

_Time is running out but something has changed._

_***_

”The second life is mine.”

Draco was sitting in Potter’s living room, nursing a cup of tea. Surprisingly enough, it seemed Potter had cleaned the place up a little since last time, as if expecting company.

Draco had woken on the floor that morning, stiff and sore. He’d stood on shaky legs, had along, scorchingly hot shower, and then resolutely headed for Potter’s house, no time for breakfast.

Potter hadn’t even fought him at the door, he’d just stepped aside with a resigned look on his face, letting Draco inside without so much as a word. It was…disorienting.

Now, Potter didn’t look the least bit surprised at Draco’s confession, which in all honesty, Draco found a little annoying.

”Is this some kind of prophecy?” Was there a tone of accusation in Potter’s voice?

Draco didn’t know, but a prophecy didn’t seem too farfetched, considering Fred’s odd mix of general vagueness and occasional, absolute certainty.

He frowned in thought, ”I don’t know. It might be,” Draco answered, uncertain.

Sitting here like this, drinking tea and speaking with Potter, without hexes and insults flying wildly around the room, was strange, and oddly comfortable. Even if their tone was far from friendly. It was as if trying to make sense of all of this with someone else—talking, discussing,closely examining the few pieces of the puzzle they actually had—eased the pressure in Draco’s chest. He no longer felt completely crestfallen, it felt as he were actually doing something about it. 

The respite would not last long, Draco knew, as he said, ”Weasley showed me the future last night.”

Potter merely raised an eyebrow, in a truly irritating fashion, and gestured at Draco to elaborate.

”He said what he showed me is a _possibility_ , not a _certainty_. That it can change if we do, but this is was waits for us if we don’t. But…” he trailed off.

”But what?”

”Well, he seems so sure that _I’m_ somehow the solution, that _I’m_ the answer, that I’m wonderingif you might be right about a prophecy after all. But there are too many uncertainties, aren’t there? How do you change a prophecy? Like he seems to believe I’ll be able to?” Draco shook his head, ”It doesn’t make sense.” He sipped his tea, scowling, it was getting cold. 

They sat quietly, lost in thought, for a long time before Potter finally broke the silence, ”Dumbledore seemed to think that prophecies only were powerful if we gave them that power, let them control our future. What did he show you yesterday? What’s so terrible about the future?”

Draco flinched, hesitated, then said, ”I went to your funeral last night.”

Potter didn’t even blink.

”And then I went to my own.” He refused to look at Potter when he said, ”It’ll happen within the next year or two.”

This time the quiet lasted even longer.

Draco cleared his throat awkwardly, ”Like I said, it doesn’t have to happen like that, it can change ’based on the choices we make’ or whatever. But he won’t tell me _what_ we have to do, only that we’re both heading for an early grave unless we change _something_.” The frustration was rising inside of him again, a large wave threatening to knock him over. Why couldn’t Fred just give him the bloody answer?

Potter looked unimpressed, ”I’ve been heading for an early grave since I was born, and so far I’ve managed to escape it.”

How could he make Potter understand, this was different.

”Look, Potter, we didn’t die in battle, we weren’t murdered by dark wizards or bitten by werewolves. We dug our own graves!”

Potter scoffed at him, ”I’m not suicidal.”

”That’s not what I meant,” Draco said impatiently, suppressing the sudden urge to throw his teacup at Potter’s thick head. He put it down on the table, the tea was long gone anyway.

How could he explain how severe the utter loneliness that was eating them both from the inside really was? The anger and bitterness keeping them from seeing anything good, from remembering that things used to be good? The hollowness in their chests driving them away from things they no longer thought they deserved?

Surely, Potter must see it himself. But then, Draco hadn’t until Fred pointed it out to him. Until he saw himself, alone and afraid at the Manor. Hunched shoulders and a haunted look in his eyes.

If there was one thing Draco was sure of from watching (and then thinking, living, dreaming, analysing and over-analysing) the visions, it was that they were both struggling with the same things. Fighting—and losing—against the same demons.

The room had gone quiet again. Draco looked down at his hands as he quietly voiced what had been troubling him the most about last night, ”No one was there.”

”Where?”

”Nobody came to my funeral. I have no one to mourn me. When I die the Manor will go to some distant relative I’ve never met, no one will remember me. No one will put flowers on my grave.” The hollow feeling in his chest threatened to do away with him there and then, it was too much, and so he snapped, ”You have people, friends, family, and what I can’t fucking understand, Potter, is why you would push them away until you’re all alone, too. Because that is what’ll kill you in the end. The only one who can save you is you!”

Draco found that he was already out of his chair, and that his breath was ragged. Had he been screaming? Anger pumped through his veins, why was he even here? Wasting his precious time on Potter, who didn’t seem to care either way. He was done here.

Draco turned in the hallway and stabbed a finger at Potter, tears burning his eyes, but his voice steady, ”Tell me this, Harry Potter, you say you don’t want to die, but do you actually want to _live_?”

Potter’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t answer.

Draco stormed out of the house and let the door slam shut behind him.

The blinding anger left him as suddenly as it had come, and now he felt completely spent. Draco didn’t want to die. And he didn’t want to die like _that,_ alone and resented. Young and unfulfilled.

Draco lifted his face to the sky and let the rain wash away the tears that were trickling down his face.Merlin, was there no end to all this crying?

He sighed. What was he going to do?


	9. The Ghost of What Could Be

_You can tell that something has shifted. But will it be enough? Is it too late? Perhaps if you show him what it could be like if only he’d make peace with himself. If they both did._

_You’ve already shown him the worst case, what if you gave him something to fight for?_

_***_

Draco gave himself a full day to wallow, to drink whiskey and think about his pathetic funeral and cry about it. But one day would have to be enough because he was running out of time, and damn it all to hell—was he or was he not a Slytherin? Was he or was he not ambitious, cunning and fucking devoted?

Draco Malfoy would fix this if it was the last thing he did. (Which he really hoped it wasn’t because that would mean that he’d failed to solve it, and failure was unacceptable.)

He summoned a bit of parchment and a quill and began to write a list. After an hour that list was still empty. After another hour it had two words on it: make friends.

Draco Malfoy had expensive clothes, a holiday home in France, a big mansion in Wiltshire, and enough money to swim in. But he didn’t have anyone to share it with.

 _How do I make new friends?_ Something so simple seemed nearly impossible for someone in Draco’s position.

He was rustled from his gloomy thoughts by a pecking noise at the window.

An owl he didn’t recognise wanted to come in and he hurriedly got up to open the window. She flew over to where Draco had been sitting by the fire and drank from his cold tea.

”Hold on, I’ll give you something better.” He summoned a box of owl treats, and fed her one as he untied the note from around her leg.”

It was a small piece of parchment, only one word was written on it: _Yes_.

The owl nibbled at his fingers and he gave her another treat. _Yes?_ Draco tried to make sense of the short message, but the only one (apart from Fred’s ghost) Draco had talked to in months, was Potter.

And then he remembered, _Tell me this, Harry Potter, you say you don’t want to die, but do you actually want to_ live _?_

He hadn’t answered, hadn’t had a chance to say anything at all before Draco had stormed out. Could this be it?

_Do you want to live? Yes._

Draco’s heart raced. He quickly turned the note over and scribbled _Good, me too,_ before he tied it to the owl’s leg and sent her back out into the starry night.

For a long time Draco just stood there by the window, thinking about the note and what it meant, and watched the Moon wander across the sky, as November shifted into December.

A small spark of something like hope flickered in his chest. 

***

December offered clear skies and cooler weather, but still no snow. The world was still grey, but occasionally painted gold by sunlight. Draco found himself wandering the grounds for hours, breathing in the cool, fresh air and thinking.

Despite Potter’s note, Draco didn’t bother visiting him again, he needed time to think by himself, and perhaps Potter needed it too. At least Potter had decided he wanted to _live_. Draco didn’t think there was anything else he could do right now anyway, but he guessed this was at a step in the right direction, for both of them. They weren’t interested in dying, or just surviving, they wanted to _live_.

Draco kept poring over his list, but list didn’t grow. He knew he needed to make friends, but how? The _how_ was the hard part. If he managed to make some friends—even just the one—maybe he wouldn’t be so lonely. Maybe he’d dare to leave his house a bit more often if he had someone to leave it with. Maybe once back out in the world he could start to make amends, try to redeem himself somehow. Maybe one day he would have made three—ten—twenty five—friends.

Maybe he’s stop being afraid he’d be cursed or killed by an unknown witch or wizard.

Draco was wracking his brain for the next step, the _how_ , but kept coming up empty. He was well and truly stuck, and it was driving him quite mad. Was it time to visit Potter again? They were stuck in the same boat after all, and venting helped him think.

Draco laughed to himself, the sound startled him. When had he last laughed? But it was kind of funny wasn’t it? Draco Malfoy considering going to Harry Potter, for a chat. He let out another surprised laugh—it felt good— and shook his head.

No, what he needed was to get out of his own head for a bit, not having another cup of cold tea and cooler conversation with Potter. He summoned the book his mother had read him in the vision, conjured up a mug of hot cocoa, and settled down to read it by the fire.

He didn’t cry.

***

Draco woke up, cold and stiff, in the armchair infront of the fireplace. The fire had gone out hours ago and the book had fallen to the floor.

He blinked sleepily. He blinked again and almost had a heart attack as Fred’s grinning face materialised before him.

”Bloody hell, Weasley! I thought you were supposed to save lives, not take them,” Draco accused breathlessly, clutching at his heart.

Fred cackled. Draco glared at him. ”What are you doing here anyway? I thought I’d seen my past, present and future already. Isn’t it time for you to go back home?” And then added, ”To Hell,” just to clarify.

Fred grinned and extended his middle fingers, ”No. I have a message for you.”

This can’t be good, Draco thought. ”From who?” Not knowing who Fred was working for was a little unsettling. 

”The Big Boss.”

”Satan?”

”No, I don’t take orders from Umbridge,” Fred said sourly, narrowing his eyes. ”And I’m still not allowed to say, so stop asking me. Do you want the message or not?”

Draco did not. He was sick of all the gloomy misery and loneliness. He didn’t want to attend more funerals or visit more graveyards. He was sick of crying. And he told Weasley so.

”Right,” Fred said, nodding in understanding, then he shrugged, ”Doesn’t really matter what you want though, does it? I’m still supposed to tell you.” Draco groaned internally, and fought a sudden impulse to cover his ears and sing loudly.

”This is a direct quote,” Fred continued, ” _You are on the right path, Mr Malfoy.”_ He said this in a mock-deep, calm voice, pressing his fingertips together in front of himself in a very un-Weasley-like manner _._ Then he grinned again. ”How was that?”

Draco didn’t know what to say, but Fred didn’t wait for his answer anyway.

”Oh, and I’m supposed to remind you that nothing is set in stone, everything depends on the decisions you make—your entire future can change depending on one tiny choice—and you two are better off figuring things out together.” He ticked this off on his fingers as he spoke.

”No pressure or anything. Bottomline is: What I will show you today might happen, or might not. Maybe all of it, maybe none of it. Maybe there will be other people there, maybe the same. Maybe none. These are _only possibilities_. Ok?”

”Ok.” Draco said flatly, too nervous to question or argue.

Fred’s icy fingers gripped Draco’s head and there was a flurry of images. It was different from before. The world didn’t go dark and misty, there was no road, no walking. They stayed in the living room and this time Draco only caught short glimpses from someone’s life. _His_ life, he realised. What _could be_ his life.

He saw a face smiling back at him from across a kitchen table, dark hair spilling out on the pillow next to his, chubby little arms reaching for him, demanding to be picked up. He saw a messy kitchen, a golden beach, a dog stealing food from the table, the Hogwarts Express zooming through green valleys and over snowy mountains. It was his wedding day and he was wearing beautiful dress robes. It was Christmas and the house was full of people. He saw a grey-haired Hermione and a wrinkled Ron. Harry re-painting a kitchen while a un-wrinkled Ron sat at the table, wolfing down a sandwich.

He held his first grandson and played Quidditch with his granddaughter. He was turning 46 and was eating birthday cake made for him by his family. He was twenty-two and alive alive alive.

As Draco came back to reality he could feel that his cheeks were wet with tears again, but for a very different reason than all the times before. Unsteadily he asked Fred, ”How? How do I get that?”

Fred shrugged, ”Couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. But” he pointed at Draco’s list, ”That seems like a good start.”

He vanished into thin air leaving Draco to his thoughts. That little spark that felt like hope glowing a little brighter.


	10. The How To of Making Friends

_You keep watching them, even though sometimes it makes you feel like a creep. You watch them sit in brooding silence, you watch them scowl and sneer and throw insults._

_You watch them talk, getting caught up in the conversation and forgetting to be rude to each other. When they laugh, you leave them, hoping that perhaps things are moving in the right way. Maybe you won’t need to interfere anymore._

_***_

It was weird, thought Draco, how quickly Harry’s livingroom had become familiar too him. This was his third visit since Fred had started haunting him. So much had happened in the pastfew weeks that it felt like months—years, decades—had passed.

”Was I there?”

”Briefly,” Draco said curtly, but to his horror he felt himself blush. ”Anyway, yesterday’s vision wasn’t about you, it was about me. You have to figure out yourself what you want out of life and how to get it.”

Potter let out an irritated noise, ”Why would he show you all my suffering but not include me in the only good one? Seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it?”

Something poked at the back of Draco’s mind, because Potter had been there and what if the vision wasn’t simply Draco’s?Because, what would Ron and Granger do in _his_ future? He shook his head as if to clear it. Fred had said that the people he saw could change, Draco had assumed he’d seen them because at the moment, Harry-bleeding-Potter was the closest thing he had to a friend. And perhaps his subconscious hoped to befriend his friends, too. He had been thinking an awful lot about making friends lately. Dear Merlin, did he just think of Potter as an almost-friend?

”Er…Malfoy?”

Draco snapped out of his reverie and said, cooly, ”Figure out what you want and how to get it. The answer is somewhere in everything I’ve told you.” He made as if to stand up and leave, but Potter stopped him. ”Hold on. Where are you going?”

”Home.” Though the empty Manor didn’t seem like a place he wanted to be. He was comfortable here, in this sofa. His tea still warm. And Fred had said again last night that they’d have to work together. Draco hesitated. ”I mean, I could stay for a bit and help you make a list.”

”A list?”

”I started working on one a while ago. Weasley thought it was a good idea.” Well, he hadn’t said so specifically, butat least approved at the words _make friends_ on the list. And that was close enough. Besides, lists helped Draco think, it was something oddly satisfying about having it all out on paper, to see your thoughts. To be able to physically rearrange and re-phrase them, to tick them off or cross them out as they changed, as everything became clearer.

”We’ll make a few, actually.” This was something Draco was good at, something concrete. ”Let’s start with what you want to do with your life. Get me some parchment.”

Potter gave him a funny look, but summoned a notepad and a pen. Draco eyed it dubiously. But didn’t say anything, especially not about how smoothly the Muggle-pen ran over the paper as he wrote _Harry-Scarhead-Potter’s will to fucking live-list,_ in a neat cursive, dotting the i:s with ironic little hearts _,_ and smirked at Potter, who rolled his eyes.

”Ok, what will it be?”

”Er, I dunno. I no longer want to become an Auror, that’s for sure. I’m sick of fighting.”

Draco sighed, ”No, Potter, I don’t want to know what you want to do for a living, I want you to figure out what you want to _do._ He sighed again, ”As in, if you’ll die in a year or two—as predicted— what would you like to have done before then? Seen? Experienced?”

Potter was quiet for a long time before asking, uncertainly, ”Like, anything?”

Draco had to hide a smile at the stunned look on Potter’s face, ”Yes, Potter, like _anything_. Dream a little. You want to travel? Eat your own weight in treacle tart? Fly naked across the English canal? Beat Victor Krum to the Snitch?”

Potter let out a startled laugh, ”Write down the treacle tart bit. Flying naked seems uncomfortable, I mean the risk of splinters in places….” He trailed off and shot an almost horrified look at Draco, who felt his face heat. Again.

Potter coughed a little awkwardly—or was that a laugh?—and composed himself.

”Er, what’s on your list? What does Draco Malfoy want to—what was it—do, see, experience?”

Draco studied his face looking for a sneer, for mocking, but Potter’s eyes were earnest.

”I only have one thing on my list so far: make friends.” He hesitated a little, ”I’m so sick of being alone all the time.”

When Potter didn’t laugh at his vulnerable honesty he continued, trying to lighten the mood, ”Did you know I’ve never swam in the ocean? I’d like to, though.” He put that on a separate list.

Hours passed like that, they were talking, about hopes and dreams, and when Potter got the whiskey out their imaginings got wilder and more fantastic.

Draco considered his earlier thought of Potter possibly being on the way to becoming his first new friend, and surprised himself by realising that he might be ok with it.

The mood shifted as the evening fell and the whiskey bottle became emptier.

Potter said, ”What about the _how_?” Draco sat up from where he’d been sprawled on the floor sipping whiskey through a neon-pink Muggle contraption, called _a straw_ , and peered at Harry.

”Depends. The _how_ of swimming in the ocean is fairly straight forward, Potter. The _how_ of me not being cursed or driven to kill myself by angry witches and wizards is a bit more complicated.”

Harry hummed and sipped at his straw-free drink.

”As is the _how_ of me getting rid of all this anger and resentment I guess…”

Draco was surprised to hear him admit to it.

”Maybe you should see a mind-healer.” Draco suggested carefully, knowing damn well that he should, too.

”Maybe,” Harry shrugged where he lay on the sofa, ”Maybe talking to you is enough.” Potter frowned at the ceiling, ”It’s surprisingly easy.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that, he wanted to scoff but there was tingly feeling along his spine. The whiskey had a lot to answer for, he thought.

When Draco didn’t say anything Harry pressed on, carefully avoiding Draco’s eyes, ”I mean, just talking about it helps, right? And you get it, a mind-healer would not. They’d listen, and nod, and pretend that what they’d read about it is enough to understand what I’ve been through.”

A bitter tone crept in as he said, ”And they’d all be too eager to hear my war stories, wouldn’t be able to believe their bloody luck, would they, with the boy-who-lived-twice sprawled on their sofa, giving them a first hand encounter of killing Voldemort.”

Draco flinched at the name. ”If it helps you can talk as much as you want. It’s the least I can do considering…” Draco trailed off. He thought listening helped him too, in some weird way, It confirmed that he wasn’t alone in this. This time it was Potter who didn’t reply.

Things were getting a bit too serious and heartfelt, Draco blamed the Fire-Whiskey and glared at the almost empty, and honestly—fuzzy—bottle.

He laid his head back on the soft carpet and thought, _fuck it_ , and in one breath he head himself saying, ”I’m sorry. For attacking you in the toilet, and you know…all that dark Death Eater bullshit.”

Potter stared at him for what felt like ages and then he burst out laughing, ”All that dark Death Eater bullshit?” he repeated, disbelieving.

Potter was right, it was absolutely ridiculous, and Draco cracked up too. And then they were both laughing, hysterically. Because everything was just so utterly absurd.

They caught their breaths, and Potter said, ”I don’t know if it’s that easy. I mean, it isn’t. Fucking hell Malfoy, it was a _war._ But, at the same time I just want to put it all behind me, you know?”

Yes, Draco knew exactly.

”And we were so young, how can be be held responsible for anything? We weren’t even old enough to get married or drink alcohol, or drive a blood Muggle car, but we were supposed to wage a fucking war?” Harry’s voice was both angry and incredulous.

”Sorry about attacking you in the toilet, too. I didn’t know what would… did it scar?”

Draco remember that day in the bathroom vividly, and yes, he does have the scars to remind him. He’d been in there crying, worried he’d be killed, worried his parents would be punished for him not being able to do what the Dark Lord had asked of him. He was so, so scared.

And then Potter had entered, seen him weak and crying, and it had been the last drop. He could not bear the thought of him telling the rest of the school that the weak Malfoy-heir was crying like a child. And so he’d tried to crucio him. Only Harry had gotten him first.

There’d been so much blood, and pain. And relief, because Draco had thought that he’d die and at least it wasn’t by the hand of the Dark Lord. At least his family wouldn’t be punished. At least he wouldn’t have to fight in the war.

The scars were long, thin, pale things crossing his chest. He nodded and smiled faintly, ”I guess we can call that particular fight even. And despite all the shit I did, you saved my life from the Fiend Fyre, too.” The fire that’d eaten one of his friends alive.

Harry shrugged awkwardly, ”I couldn’t let you die.”

”I wish I could tell you the same, but I was never brave like you. Never a hero. I like to think that I would have, but I think we both know that’s probably not true.” Shame was stinging Draco’s eyes. He’d definitely had too much whiskey. But talking like this eased the pressure in his chest and he didn’t want to stop.

Harry turned to look at him, ”You didn’t give me up at the Manor. If you had I’d be dead now. Besides, didn’t we just decide to put all of this behind us, for now anyway. Or do you want to take out and examine every little thing we have ever done to each other?”

Draco did not.

”I know you didn’t kill him. I saw your face, I saw you lowering your wand. I know you contemplated switching sides already there and then.”

Draco knew what he was talking about but how did Potter know?

As if Potter had heard Draco’s thoughts he said, ”I was under my cloak, I saw all of it.”

Draco hesitated, ”I wanted to, so badly—switch sides I mean, not kill him—but I didn’t have the guts. The Dar—” Draco swallowed, ”Volde—”he took a shuddering breath, ” _he_ would have killed my parents. I just… I couldn’t.” His voice was shaking now. Draco could feel himself nearing hysterics as he said ”Listen to me, I can’t even say his name, how could I have stood up to anyone? I’m such a fucking coward.”

Potter silently got up and refreshed their drinks, while swaying a little. He clinked their tumblers together, ”Here’s to leaving old shit behind. We’ve suffered enough, dont you think?”

Draco knew he’d had too much to drink already, and there’d be a different kind of suffering for him tomorrow, but, ”I’ll drink to that!”

After that they were quite for a long time, Draco sensed it was time to go.

To his surprise Potter stopped him on the way to the fireplace, Potter had arranged for a temporary connection to the Floo—thank Merlin he wouldn’t have to try and apparate in this condition, he’d never make it home in one piece—”Er, do you want to maybe meet up again?” It was awkward but Draco didn’t hesitate. ”Yes.”

He stepped into the green flames, but before he called out for the Manor, he turned around and smirked at Potter, ”I’m still better than you at Quidditch, Scarhead.” Potter’s protests were drowned out by the swooshing sound of the Floo and Draco laughed to himself.


	11. Winter Solstice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest, and I daresay, fluffiest, chapter so far...

_”Will it be enough?” He looks at you with that calm, knowing expression. It drives you absolutely insane._

_”Time will tell.”_

_You want to yell at him, why hasn’t he helped you more? Why didn’t he save them himself? How is he so calm? Your frustration only seems to amuse him._

_”It is up to them now, you have done all you can. You gave them the push they needed to get started, to change. But it is up to them to continue.”_

_Perhaps he’s right._

_***_

Draco Malfoy was certain that he’d well and truly botched things up. Potter wouldn’t show up. Why did he invite him to this of all places? The Malfoy Chamber of Horrors. Of course he wouldn’t come. Draco should have gone to Potter’s place instead, brought him some lunch.

They’d met up a few times over the past weeks—almost daily since that evening they’d filled with writing lists and drunken confessions and awkward apologies—but they had always been at Potter’s place. Never here.

Draco was surprised to find one day, sitting on the sofa at Grimauld Place, that he actually enjoyed spending time with Potter, no longer simply tolerating it because he had to.

It was nice having someone to talk to, someone who understood. Their school-rivalry wasn’t there anymore, or it was, but in a different way—the antagonism had mellowed, but Draco would still do everything in his power to beat Potter at, well, anything really.

So far he’d actually lost at Wizard Chess, Gobstones and Exploding Snap, but surprisingly won both Ludo and Monopoly, which were Muggle games, and if Potter hadn’t bumped the table just as Draco was removing a block, Draco would have won at Jenga, too. (He still counted that as a win, no matter what Potter, the cheating bastard, said.)

The fire turned green, interrupting Draco’s ruminations. Potter had decided to allow the _temporary_ Floo-connection between their houses to become a permanent one. Draco supposed apparating and knocking on the front door wasn’t much more of a bother, but not having to go out in the winter cold was nice. As was not having to apparate after a bottle of wine or Fire-Whiskey, and come home only to realise that you’d left a limb or two behind.

Potter looked a little uncomfortable as his eyes swept the room, ”Cozy,” he observed, ”Death-Eater-Deco, doesn’t give me the creeps at all.”

His tone was jesting but Draco, already insecure, felt unsure of what to do.

”We can leave. Go back to your place, I shouldn’t have asked you..”

”No, no, it’ll be fine. I was just…”

”Joking?” Draco said drily.

Their budding friendship was fragile and tentative, not to mention inconsistent. Some days they tiptoed around each other, unsure which lines to cross and which not to, other they were painfully blunt and honest. Draco liked those days the best, he found the honesty liberating.

Potter looked sheepish, and shrugged awkwardly. ”I hear using humour as a defense mechanism is very popular these days.”

Draco rolled his eyes, ”Come on Scar-head, I’ve an idea.”

It was a cold and sunny day and it had been snowing during the night. Draco lent Potter some warm clothes and brought him outside.

He headed straight for the broom-shed, Draco hadn’t flown in years. The look on Potter’s face as he handed him a broom did not bypass him. And he couldn’t help himself but smirked, ”You up for it, Potter?” He heard the challenge in his own voice, saw Potter’s green eyes flash, and before he knew it they were on their brooms, racing across the snowy lawn.

Draco felt light, almost weightless. Why had he waited so long to get back on it? He was speeding towards the big oak tree, Potter at his heals, laughing and winning.

They were out there for hours, racing each other, tossing an old Quaffle back and forth, enchanting snowballs and chasing them.

Draco was just about to win his third race in a row when something icy hit him in the back of his neck. ”Blast!” He turned a murderous look at Potter as he swooshed by him, grinning.

”I win!”

”The hell you do!” Draco threw a snowball that hit Potter square in the face, and like that a snowball fight had begun.

Evil cackles and outraged yells mixed with flying snowballs and genuine laughter. Draco felt like a child again. The fight came to a sudden halt when Draco managed to knock Potter off his broom and horrified jumped down after him to see if he’d survived.

Unfortunately he had, and without warning he’d pushed Draco’s face into the snow and put his icy hand—full of snow—down the neck of Draco’s shirt, eliciting a high pitched shriek from Draco.Then he ran away, broom abandoned, laughing manically.

Draco jumped to his feet and ran after him. Once he caught up he threw himself at Potter, tackling him to the snowy ground. It knocked the breath out of both of them.

”Peace.” Potter panted under him, ”Truce.”

Draco rolled off him and got up, still short of breath, and reached his hand out to pull Potter up. Face to face he couldn’t help but notice how bright Potter’s eyes were, how they were no longer dead and empty, but shining and crinkled with laughter.

Ice-cold but cheery, they went back inside and sat down by the fire. Draco made them hot chocolate, poured in a few drops of Fire-Whiskey and topped it all off with whipped cream.

The days were short and as they sat there talking and defrosting, darkness fell.

”I’ve thought about our lists, and I’d like to add a few things,” Potter said suddenly. ”To yours.”

”To mine?” Draco was incredulous. ”Why? Like what?”

”Well, I was thinking about all the Muggle things you’ve been missing out on because of your,” he gestured vaguely at the room, ”pureblood family, and I reckon it is time for you to live a little. Er, no pun intended.”

Draco was unsure about what to say, Muggle-things were still on the list of delicate subjects to discuss with Potter, but carefully he asked, ”Like what?”

”Like, er…the cinema!”

”Great, that cleared things up,” Dracos said drily.

Potter grinned. ”It’s better if I just show you.” 

Draco looked at him expectantly. Potter stared back. Then he caught on, ”No, not now! It’s a place, I’ll have to bring you. Er,tomorrow?”

Draco longed to be out and about again, without having to look over his shoulder, without being met by rudeness or dirty looks. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been able to go out and actually enjoy a meal at a restaurant. Perhaps venturing out into the Muggle world wouldn’t be too bad, at least no one would know who he was. 

”Ok, fine. You may bring me to this _Cinema.”_ Then Draco realised that perhaps he’d agreed a little too quickly, because what the hell was it he’d just agreed to?

”So what do you do at this _Cinema_ place? What do I wear?”

Potter’s smile was a little amused, ”You’ll see but er, wear something Muggle-friendly. No cloaks or robes. Trousers and a shirt would be alright. I’m guessing you don’t own a pair of jeans?”

Was Harry Potter mocking his wardrobe? Harry Potter, of all people? The Boy-who-got-dressed-in-the-dark? The-boy-without-matching-socks? The-boy-whose-hair-was-apparently-uncombable?

Draco glared at him, ready to say something scathing, but then all of a sudden Fred Weasley appeared between them.

”Boo.”

Harry and Draco both jumped, clutching at their chests and swearing. Fred cackled.

”See? See! This is what I’ve had to live with.” Draco flew up from the sofa and gestured frantically between Potter and Fred. ”You _can_ see him, right?” But Draco could tell from the expression on Potter’s face that he very much could.He turned to face Weasley.

”What are you doing here? Please, no more visions.”

”Nope,” Fred grinned. He was very animated, for a ghost, Draco thought. ”My time’s up and the Big Boss wanted to see you.”

No. Nonononononooo. No, thank you.

”But, I’ve done my part,” Draco complained. He felt as if were ten and being sent to detention, underserved detention.

”So you have,” said a booming voice to Draco’s right. Draco whirled. Merlin’s balls, he should have bloody known, shouldn’t he?

Albus Dumbledore nodded in agreement to Draco’s thought. ”Yes, you probably should have.”

”You can read my mind?!” Draco exclaimed, horrified, clutching at his head. As if that would help.

”Funny thing,” Fred said, holding up a finger, ”So can I.” No. NOOO. Why was this happening to him?

Potter still hadn’t said a word. Draco would be very upset if he’d died from shock. But then he spoke up, albeit shakily, ”Professor? Fred?”

They both beamed at him, in their ghostly manner. Fred put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and grinned, ”Finally, mate, been trying to talk to you for ages.” Harry looked dazed. ”Instead I was stuck with Ferret-boy.”

Draco looked down at the table and wondered if his mug would strike Fred in the face or just fly right through his head.

Fred turned and grinned at him, ”Why don’t you give it a try? See what happens?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and they all fell silent.

”We don’t have much time,” he said. ”But I wanted you to know things have started to shift, you are heading the right way.” Draco barely dared believe it, but Merlin, did he want to!

”So is it another prophecy then, Sir?” Harry asked. ”What does it say?”

”No, this is different. As I believe Mr Weasley has told you, this is about choices. About making the right ones. I’ve seen what the wrong will bring you.”

”You know the future? But how can you if you say that it’ll depend on our choices if you’ve already seen it?” Draco felt miffed. Dumbledore smiled at him serenely.

”Yes, do I know the future. Every single version of it, Draco.” Well, damn.

”So,” Harry asked tentatively, ”there’s hope?”

”There’s always hope, my dear boy. Nothing is set in stone, everything can change, and does, constantly. But it’s up to you to make sure your future is the best it can be.”

Draco felt as if he was listening to one of those self-help programs on the wireless. Privately he thought that it couldn’t possibly be _only_ up to them, all sorts of things were out of their hands. Draco could be the best version of him self and still be hit by a train or eaten by a chimaera by the end of next week. He did see the point Dumbledore was making, though. Kind of.

Dumbledore chuckled, ”Yes, Draco, you are quite right. Not everything is within your control, but some things are, and those are the ones to focus on. Like you already have started doing. Excellent things, those lists.”

Draco was not a fan of this whole mind-reading business, there were thoughts he rather no one heard.

”But,” Harry said, ”If there isn’t a prophecy, why was it so important that it was Malfoy who would try and save me? Or us? I still don’t understand.”

Dumbledore smiled secretively, ”No matter your choices, your fates are more tangled that you know, Harry. I can’t tell you more than that. One day you will understand.” He looked a Harry for a bit, and added, ”Ah, perhaps you already do.”

Draco thought about the last vision Fred had shown him, about the glimpses into a future he hadn’t known he wanted, but ached for now. His eyes flew up to met Dumbledore’s, whose smile grew even more mysterious and knowing.

”I feel I have to warn you, though,” Draco’s heart sank like a stone, ”your choices do matter, like I said, and yes, things are looking brighter for both of you at the moment, but that doesn’t mean it cannot change for the worse again. There’s no finish line. There’s no one-time fix-all. Life is an ever-growing puzzle, and you will have to keep trying your hardest to fit the pieces together.” He looked at their panicky expressions, and his face softened.

”Just keep focusing on things that will make you happy. Find happiness, friendship, love—that, I believe, is key. The rest will fall into place.” 

Draco’s head was spinning, and Potter looked stunned. What Dumbledore had said was of course consistent with what they knew already, hearing it like that was different.

At the moment, the relief of knowing that they were doing something right almost canceled out Draco’s stress over knowing that they could just as easily undo it. Draco did not want to plunge back down into the black hole he’d just barley managed to scramble out from, but his feet were still dangling over the edge.

Dumbledore turned to Fred.

”Come now, Mr Weasley, our time is up.”

”But it’s not even close to midnight yet,” Fred protested, ”I haven’t had anytime to talk to Harry.”

”I thought there might be someone else you’d like to visit before we have to go,” Dumbledore said meaningfully.

The hopeful, longing look Fred gave Dumbledore broke Draco’s heart a little.

Fred looked at them, ”Harry. Ferret-face. Don’t make me come back and save you all over again. I’m wanted elsewhere, save yourselves. Or each other.” He winked and saluted them.

Dumbledore put a hand on Fred’s shoulder and silently they both faded, leaving Draco and Potter alone again.

For a long time they just sat there, quietly staring into space, contemplating what had just happened. What they’d just been told.

”Er, you don’t any have more of that spiked hot chocolate, do you?” Potter asked, a little disheveled. ”Or something er, stronger?”

Draco did.


	12. Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even longer and fluffier.   
> Also, they're both idiots. Like, OMG?!  
> I'd apologise, but I'm not that sorry. :D

Last night had been something else. Potter had brought him to Muggle London and this place called a _Cinema_. Where they’d watched a _Movie._ And had _Popcorn._ And _Coca-Cola,_ a drink so fizzy it made your nose tickle _._ It had all been terribly exotic to Draco, and he had had to try very hard not to let on just how amazed he’d been.

And then, in a weak moment—Draco blamed the Christmassy feeling the movie had given him—he’d convinced Potter to let him come over and help him decorate Grimauld Place for Christmas, even if it was last minute.

Potter didn’t seem to think there was any point in decorating at all since he’d be spending it there all by himself, but his protests were half-hearted and it didn’t take much to persuade him.

This made Draco very happy, as he thought that some lights could perhaps help soften the doom and gloom of the old Black house and put Potter in a better mood. (There weren’t enough Christmas decorations in the world to soften the doom and gloom of the Malfoy Manor, so Draco wouldn’t even try.)

And so, on Christmas Eve, Draco found himself yet again sitting in Potter’s living room, this time untangling a sinful entanglement of Christmas-tree lights. (He was fairy sure someone had cursed them to stay tangled forever. Probably one of the Weasleys. Probably Fred.)

”Hey, I thought of another thing to add to your Muggle-experience-list.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at Potter, just because the cinema had been a success didn’t mean he trusted him on all things Muggle. ”What?”

”Food.”

”What do you mean _food_?”

”I mean all the things we didn’t get at Hogwarts, all the things Witches and Wizards don’t normally seam to eat. Pizza, burgers, curry, sushi, tacos—all of it.”

”So, we’re going out?” Draco guessed.

”No, not today. Er, unless you really want to.” The insecurity had snuck into Potter’s voice again, as it seemed to do from time to time. Draco found it endearing.

”I thought we could order in. After we’ve decorated.”

Somehow Potter had already gotten a massive tree into his living room, and boxes upon boxes of Sirius’ decorations were strewn across the floor.

Potter’s house was an odd mix of Magic and Muggle. And as Draco watched he got a silver disc out, put it in a big black machine, and with the press of a button the house filled with christmassy tones. Draco didn’t find the tunes as offensive has he had at the end of October.

Harry poured them a glass of hot, mulled wine each, and they got back to business. Garlands, glitter, tiny Santas and reindeers were put up all around the house. The curtains were charmed tolook like snowfall, the doorbell to whistle _Jingle-bells_.

Draco added lights where ever he could: fairy lights in every colour, enormous candles, and tea light holders shaped like snowmen and glittering snowballs. At last he magicked little orbs that clung to the ceiling, creating an illusion of a starry night. (He’d put the tangled lights back in to the box and hid it under the sofa.)

They saved the tree for last, that was a two person job. Or it probably wasn’t, considering they could use magic, but they pretended it was. 

Draco stepped back, sipping his warm wine and admired their handiwork. He’d found another box of lights for the tree—frosted—and silently vowed to vanish the first one with the tangled mess when Potter wasn’t looking.

”Not too bad, eh?” The tree was dressed in lights, tinsel, and colourful ornaments. A glittering star at the very top. Draco swayed a little to the music, and popped the last bit of a christmas cookie into his mouth.

Potter’s bright smile was answer enough. The stupid git had tinsel in his hair and Draco reached out to remove it without a second thought.

Potter’s hair was a lot softer than it looked—not that Draco had looked—and when he drew in a sharp breath, Draco realised that the air around them had thickened. He froze, they were standing so close Draco could count the otherwise invisible freckles on Potter’s nose. (Seven.)

Potter swallowed audibly and Draco quickly pulled his fingers out of Potter’s hair and sheepishly held up the tinsel between them.

”Oh,” Harry took a step back, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed, though why he couldn’t say.

Potter ordered Muggle food from Asia, which Draco thought a bit excessive. He was surprised at how fast it got there though, and couldn’t help but comment on it.

Harry blinked at him incredulous, and then he laughed. And laughed.

”Honestly Malfoy, who’d have thought you were so fucking funny to be around?”

Draco frowned at him.

”It’s Asian food, not food from Asia. The restaurant’s here in London. Two blocks away.” Harry kept shaking his head and snorting as he unpacked the bags, setting the containers out on the sofa table. Then he went on pointing at each dish, making impossible noises. Were they Asian spells?

Draco had a billion questions but didn’t want to seem uncultured or have Potter laugh at his Muggle-world-obliviousness again. He did have a very fragile ego, after all, and needed to protect it at all costs. But when Potter handed him a set of sticks instead of proper cutlery he felt he had to speak up, because what the actual fuck.

”What the actual fuck?” Draco said, waving his chopsticks at Potter.

It took seven minutes of intense instructions, frustration, and colourful profanities before Draco finally succeeded in picking some food up with his sticks, only to drop it—a _dumpling_ — into a bowl of dipping sauce, causing a small tsunami. Draco very much wanted to scream. He’d never let Potter order food for him again. Angrily he stabbed at a piece of fish and rice and managed to spear it. Triumphantly he dipped it into another bowl of something Potter pointed at and stuffed it in his mouth.

It was surprisingly good. A bit salty and almost sweet at the same time, the fish melted in his mouth. And then there was subtle, cool rush, as if his face woke up from the inside. Draco shivered. Potter noticed and said, ”That’d be the wasabi.” He gestured at a green glob, ”I mixed some with the soy-sauce.”

Draco skewered another piece of fish and dipped it in the soy. He used his other stick to smear some extra wasabi on it before smugly popping it in his mouth—eating with sticks was pretty easy after all.

”No, Draco!” Harry’s warning had come a second too late, but Draco didn’t know what he was on about. Two seconds later, he did. He was burning up from the inside, but the fire was cold. His brain was hurting, his nose burning, tears stinging his eyes. Draco pounded his fist on the table. Was he dying? Was it poison and not a curse that got him in the end? Wait, had Potter just called him Draco?

And then it stopped, just as quickly as it had begun.

”What the..?” Draco felt weird, all light and tingly. It had been almost painful but now he felt as after a really, really good…well, sneeze. Really. As after a good sneeze.

”Wasabi.”Potter stated, hand covering his mouth, laughter dancing in his eyes. 

Draco suspiciously eyed the green glob again and stabbed another piece of fish and rice— _sushi_ Potter had said—this time he didn’t add anything extra, just dipped it in the soy.

Draco tried skewered chicken, soup with noodles, soup without noodles, sallad that almost burned a hole in his tongue, seaweed, and finally he gave the dumplings another try. He was so stuffed he could barely move, but he’d quite enjoyed most of the food.

They spent the rest of the evening drinking more mulled wine until Harry had Kreacher prepare some eggnog for them. They listened to Christmas songs and talked about past christmases. Draco thought about what he’d seen in the visions and carefully steered the conversation to Hogwarts and the feasts there.

For once they avoided all heavy topics—no war, no death, no apologies. They stuck to music and books and Quidditch, discussing the difference in Muggle and Wizard sports and pop culture, both vowing to educate the other on the high points of their respective culture.

Draco talked about the travels he’d like to do and Harry told him about how Muggles had found a way to travel into space. And when Draco did not believe him he got up to fetch a little flat box that let him find movies and pictures and read the Muggle news and who knew what else.

Draco watched the moon-landing, and they had to switch from eggnog to whiskey. Then he had to lie down.

Draco lay there staring at the ceiling, contemplating everything he thought he knew about the world. Harry eventually threw himself down on the opposite end in silent companionship.

They fell asleep like that, sprawled head to toe on the sofa. The lights in the tree glowing softly, the starry lights in the ceiling twinkling.

***

Draco woke up slightly disoriented and with a stiff neck on Christmas morning. Heavy legs were draped across his own, pinning him down against the sofa. He tried to move, but the room moved instead. He firmly shut his eyes again, willing the room to stop spinning. It did not work.

Merlin’s arse, how much did they have to drink last night? He recalled the Fire-Whiskey. And some asian beer with the food. Ah, and an ungodly amount of mulled wine and eggnog. He shuddered a little at the thought—he’d been well and truly sloshed. They both had.

Draco tried to move his legs, just to see if they were still there. He couldn’t feel them. Harry snored soundly, head at an awkward angle on the armrest, heel digging into Draco’s ribs. Draco gave up, summoned the blanket from the armchair, threw it over the both of them, and promptly went back to sleep.

The next time he woke up it was from Potter’s foot poking him in the ribbs. The world had stopped spinning, but his head was pounding. The foot poked at him again. ”Are you dead?”

”Yes,” Draco grunted.

”Too bad, it being Christmas and all.”

Merlin’s beard, Potter was right, it was Christmas Day.

”Merry Christmas. Looks like I’ll be spending it on your sofa. I cannot move.” Draco wasn’t being dramatic or whining, he was only stating cold, hard facts.

Potter—the absolute bastard—laughed. ”Merry Christmas, Malfoy! Hair of the dog or a hangover potion?”

Draco’s stomached lurched at the thought of alcohol. ”Potion, please.”

Harry summoned two vials from Merlin knows where, and handed one to Draco, ”Cheers!”

Draco glared at him, ”How are you so…awake? Alive?”

”Don’t you know?” Harry grinned, ”I’m the boy who lived. Twice.”

Draco almost wanted to correct him, tell him thrice, but he wasn’t sure Fred’s rescue mission had been successful, yet, and he didn’t want to jinx it. He settled for extending one of his elegant middle fingers instead and downed the potion in one large gulp.

That was a mistake, Draco almost choked on it. He pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing hard, willing his stomach to settle. And miraculously it did. In fact, the pounding in his head instantly seemed a bit fainter as well.

”Better?”

”Yes.”

”Come on, I’ll have Kreacher fix us some breakfast.” Potter stopped, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, ”I mean, er, if you want to stay for a bit. Er, I could even have him cook some Christmas dinner for us.”

Draco very much wanted to stay, he had no one at the Manor, and the thought of going back there today of all days…he _really_ wanted to stay.

Also, wouldn’t that mean that at least _this_ day had changed from the vision Fred had shown him. If Draco stayed neither he nor Harry would have a miserable, lonely Christmas. And if that had changed, what else had? Dumbledore had hinted at it, but living it was different from just being told.

When Draco hadn’t said anything for several minutes Harry said hurriedly, ”It’s ok if you don’t want to, I mean its Christmas. I understand, I just thought—” Was Potter babbling? Either way Draco interrupted him, ”Yes, thank you. That sounds good. I just, it’d be nice to clean up bit after last night.” He gestured vaguely at his rumpled self.

Potter grinned at him, ”Excellent! Because I’ve got something I think you might enjoy. And you can use the shower, I’ll find you something to wear.”

Potter’s smile was contagious, and Draco had to bite his lip to fight his own off.

”What would that be?”

”Er, perhaps just some trousers and a jumper. Nothing fancy.”

Draco shook his head, rolling his eyes just a little, ”No, Potter. What is it that you have that you think I might enjoy?”

”Oh, that. Er, you just have to wait and see until after breakfast.”

Potter showed Draco to the second floor bathroom, gave him a fresh towel and a pile of clothes. Then he went to instruct Kreacher, while waiting to a shower of his own. But just as Draco was closing the door Potter turned back and surprised Draco by saying, ”Hey, I almost forgot. What’s your favourite Christmas food?”

”Uh, sweet or savoury?”

”Both.”

”I guess you can’t go wrong with turkey and roast potatoes, as long as you leave room for some pudding. And,” Draco hesitated just a little, ”technically it’s not a food, but I do find myself quite partial to candy canes.”

”Brilliant.” Harry smiled and walked off, leaving Draco to his shower.

The water worked is magic on Draco almost as well as the potion had, and as he soaped up he realised just how used he’d become to the smell of Harry’s soap. It did weird things to his insides, but Draco chose to ignore that and blamed it on the residual hangover.

Still, this also made him realise that he was naked in Potter’s house, which made him feel even more naked (if possible) and he felt even more tingly and weird—could that be lingering effects from the wasabi?

He quickly rinsed off, dried off and started pulling Potter’s clothes on. (Dear Merlin, he was wearing Potter’s boxers. Draco pleaded with his brain to please please please not go down that road. It very much ignored his wishes.)

The trousers were plain grey, cotton, just a little loose on him. The jumper was dark red and soft, and as he looked in the mirror he realised that it had a golden snitch on the chest, its tiny wings fluttering.

They had their breakfast in a comfortable silence, but as soon as Harry had gulped down the last of his coffee Draco jumped up from his chair, he couldn’t wait any longer—he _did_ feel like a child on Christmas. ”So, tell me Potter, what is it you’ve got for me?”

Amused, Potter stood and walked into the living room, Draco followed.

”Well, I’d gotten them for last night, but completely forgot about them then because…well. Youknow, you were there.” He rubbed the back of his head again—Draco started to understand why his hair was alway so messy—and held up a stack of small, thin books.

Draco looked at him questioningly, ”We’re reading?”

”What? No. They’re not books, they’re movies.” Harry stepped over to where Draco was standing by the sofa and put the pile down on the table next to him. ”You seemed to enjoy the cinema so I thought we could watch something else. Here.”

Draco stared at the titles. ”You mean you don’t have to go out to watch it?”

Potter laughed, ”I’ve got a Telly, it’s not the same thing but when you watch it at home you canwatch it whenever you want, pause it, eat whatever you like, drink wine or whiskey, watch it in your underwear—you know, what ever you fancy. 

Draco briefly imagined the two of them on the sofa in their underwear and flushed. Flustered he said, ”Fully dressed would be quite alright. And no wine, thank you.” Once again Potter stared at him as if he’d just said something hilarious, and shook his head. Draco’s flush deepened.

”Anyway, I’ve got a few different ones—christmas ones, romantic, action, adventure, horror. Even a fantasy one where you get to see what Muggles think they know about wizards. I thought you’d enjoy that.”

They ended up watching _The Princess Bride_ and an old black and white movie called _A Christmas Carol_ —which frankly, was uncomfortably similar to their current situation.

Then they watched a movie about dragons who couldn’t breathe fire. The Muggles kept calling them _Dinosaurs_ and said they’d gone extinct and then brought them back to life using some kind of Muggle-magic, only to try and kill them again.

Draco found it all delightfully absurd and never wanted the movies to end. Harry assured him that there were plenty more to watch, and promised him to take him to a video store where you could—get this—rent movies. Like a library but for movies. Draco obviously hadn’t given Muggles near enough credit—between space travel and movies and food delivery, he almost wished he’d discovered this world a bit earlier.

Kreacher had set the table for them in the dining room, a fat, rosted turkey sat in the middle of it, accompanied by roast potatoes and dishes with sprouts and gravy. And, to Draco’s amusement, a large bowl filled with candy canes.

Candles were lit and music was playing softly in the background. Draco suddenly halted in the doorway, because it looked distinctly _romantic._ Like a scene straight from the movie they’d watched at the cinema.

Harry didn’t see Draco stop and walked straight into him, almost knocking him over, quickly grabbing his shoulders.

Draco looked up, and yes, of course. There it was. A mistletoe. Potter must have put it there yesterday. But why, did he hope to…did he mean for Draco to? No, that was ridiculous.

Potter followed Draco’s eyes and saw the mistletoe, too. He stiffened, hands still holding on to Draco. Draco could feel Potter’s breath on the side of his neck, he shivered.

”Er, I didn’t even know I had a mistletoe, where did you find it?” He sounded casual. Ish.

Draco frowned, ”Where did _I_ find it? I didn’t put it there, you must have.”

”Why would I put up mistletoe in an empty house? Who’d I hope to kiss? Kreacher?”

Draco turned around to face Potter, annoyed, ”Why would _I—”_ Draco trailed off, ”Kreacher?”

They were standing so close Draco could feel the heat emanating from Potter’s body, he suppressed the urge to lick his lips. Harry swallowed, his eyes intense. ”Kreacher.”

With a loud _Bang!_ Kreacher emerged causing Draco and Harry to fly apart. Draco’s heart pounded.

”You called, Master.” Kreacher bowed.

”I did? Yes, yes, I did.” Harry scratched at his eyebrow, ”Kreacher, did you put this mistletoe here?”

”Yes, Master.”

”Why?” Harry said, incredulous.

”It’s for kissing, Master.”

”I know what—” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. ”Kreacher, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to kiss you. Mistletoe or not.”

Kreacher tutted. ”Not _me_ , Master.”

Harry stared at him. Kreacher stared back.

When Harry didn’t say anything Kreacher inclined his head towards Draco in his unsubtle, house-elf way. The longer Potter was silent, the more obvious the tilt of Krecher’s head became. Draco wanted to sink though the floor. He thought this mistletoe business had gotten a little out of hand.

Before Kreacher said anything they’d all regret Draco strode to the table and said, ”Smells delicious, Kreacher.”

Krecher looked delighted, and bowed. With another loud _Bang!_ he was gone.

The awkwardness only lasted a few minutes, and soon they were eating, happily prattling on about the movies they’d watched and whether or not they’d watch a horror movie after dinner.

The thought from that morning struck Draco again, with full force. It was accompanied by warm hope spreading through his chest, he looked up at Harry and grinned. Harry raised an eyebrow.

”You know, Fred showed me what Christmas Day would be like this year, and it was nothing like this.” He watched Potter intently, waiting for him to make the same connection. But his insides felt bubbly and waiting wasn’t an option, ”It has to mean that we’ve done it right? We’ve changed something?”

Potter laughed, ”You don’t have to look to the future to see that though, do you? Look back at the past few weeks instead. Of course we have changed something. Even Dumbledore said so.”

Potter was right, but still, this felt like some kind of confirmation.

Draco’s thoughts drifted to the visions he hadn’t shared with Potter. Flashes of a messy kitchen and a head resting on the pillow next to his. For the first time in forever Draco actually believed that the possibilities were endless, that there might be a future worth fighting for after all.

After they finished eating Potter asked, ”Do you have another movie in you, or do you want to go home? Or,” he added quickly, ”we could do something else, I mean, if you want.” Draco got the feeling that Potter didn’t want to be left alone today anymore than he wanted to go back to a dark and empty Manor.

”I’m absolutely stuffed, a movie sounds good.”

Potter’s smile was relieved.

Back in the living room Potter put a disc back inte the machine and said, ”This is a famous classic.” And then added, ”Don’t freak out.”

Draco scoffed. Why would he? They had agreed on no horror, after all.

Large yellow letters appeared on the screen: _STAR WARS_. Bloody hell, Draco glanced at Potter,Potter glanced back.

A whole movie with Muggles zooming around space like it was perfectly normal, as if stars and planets weren’t just meant to be studied through telescopes and remain mysterious. No biggie. Draco didn’t freak out once, not even when the aliens and metallic, beeping, men appeared. (Potter repeatedly assured him they weren’t real. That none of it was.)

Draco very much enjoyed the lightsabers though, they somehow reminded him of his wand.

Draco was content, warm, full, and sleepy, and started drowsing off towards the end of the movie. So when Potter offered him to stay, he happily let him show him to one of the guest rooms.

Potter lingered by the door, running his hands repeatedly through his hair, leaving it messier than ever. ”Ok, well, er…good-night, then.”

Draco’s sleepy hands seemed to have a mind off their own, and one of them lifted to brush the hair out of Potter’s face. The pale scar glowed faintly against Potter’s skin in the dim light, and Draco traced it with his finger. Potter closed his eyes.

”Good-night, Scarhead. Merry Christmas.” Draco smiled softly and closed the door.

He threw him self on the bed, heart pounding and stomach fluttering, but fell asleep instantly.

Draco’s dreams were filled with dinosaurs flying through space, daring sword fights, and Kreacher running after him with a mistletoe on a rod, trying to kiss him.

Then the face wasn’t Kreacher’s anymore, and soft lips locked with Draco’s.

For the second night in a row, he didn’t wake up screaming. 


	13. New year, New us

_Every now and then Dumbledore summons you and you check in on them together. Looking at them through the scrying bowl now you’re surprised, but you’re also not._

_You look up at the old man, ”You knew? The whole time?” He just smiles at you. It’s as infuriating as always._

_”How could you possibly have known? They’ve always hated each other.”_

_”They were rivals, yes. Deeply obsessed with each other, too. I always suspected there was something more there. And that if the circumstances had be different, if young Mr Malfoy hadn’t been so heavily influenced by his family, and if Harry hadn’t had to fight against them and their beliefs, if they had just been two boys at school, their rivalry would have stayed on the Quidditch Pitch.” He chuckled a little. ”And now that things were different I thought they should have another chance to get to know each other again. See if they could pull each other up, out of their darkness. See if that spark would turn to friendship, or more.”_

_You shake your head, ”Never in my life—or death— would I have bet on this. Never.” And yet..._

__

_***_

The days after Christmas passed in a blissful blur of leftover food, old movies, and the making of New Years plans. Laughs came easier and Draco found it hard to look at Potter and not smile, the insides of his cheeks were bitten raw from fighting the smiles off.

Looking at Potter without reaching out and run his fingers through his hair was even harder. Draco still remembered the feel of it, and then the soft skin under his finger as he traced the scar—what on earth has possessed him to do so? He cringed when ever he thought about it, but his fingers still itched to do it again and again.

Neither Potter nor Draco were ready to face the Wizarding world where they were both constantly recognised—albeit for very different reasons—and when Harry had suggested they’d go to Muggle Edinburgh and celebrate the new year together, Draco had agreed without a second thought.

Hogmanay, according to Potter, was legendary among Muggles. There’d be people everywhere, from all over the world, celebrating the new year. And since it was a new millennia, too, the celebrations were going to be over the top.

They’d travelled up to Edinburgh two days before New Years, and Potter had bought a guide book and hauled Draco all around the city.

Draco hadn’t spent much time in the Muggle world, and wasn’t sure how to navigate it, but Potter was an excellent guide, and a great help, especially when it came ot the Muggle money—Draco didn’t understand the system at all, there was simply no logic to it. No wonder Muggles needed little machines to do the math for them.

They wandered around, all across the city, up and down the narrow streets and closes, through the parks and up Arthur’s Seat.

Draco was, against his will, becoming more and more fascinated with the Muggle world. It was just so different, and had it’s own kind of magic— _technology_. His initial panic regarding space-travel, and then space in general, had turned into a morbid fascination of a kind. It still freaked him out, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and kept peppering Potter with questions. Finally Potter found him a bookshop, and showed Draco a fat book about space, full of fascinating, colourful images and facts. It had almost been the highlight of his day.

Draco loved books, always had. He’d read anything from heavy history tomes to wizard romance, and mysteries. Books he understood, books were almost the same in both worlds.

To Draco’s delight, Blackwell’s had floor upon floor with Muggle literature. He felt completely blissed out, and wanted to buy at least one from every genre. By the time they left the shop, Draco had acquired an astonishing number of new books.

He’d gotten several non-fiction books, one on space, one on human anatomy, a travel guide to Australia, and a book called _A Brief History of Time._

When he’d asked the shop assistant for the most popular Muggle classics, the clerk had given him a funny look, and pointed him towards _Pride and Prejudice_ , _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and _The Collected Works of William Shakespeare_ —all of which she had repeatedly assured him were quite famous.

Potter had pulled him away from the clerk—muttering words like _escaped_ , _cult_ and _locked in basement_ —apparently thinking it safer if he pointed Draco in the right direction instead, and stuffed a full trilogy called _Lord of the Rings_ in his hands.

Then Draco picked out _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, On the Road, Outlander, The Secret History, It,_ and _Bridget Jones’ Diary,_ all by himself.

As soon as they’d left the shop, Draco stepped into an alley and stuffed all of his new shiny books down his magical bag, which then fit comfortably in his pocket.

Harry brought them across the street and down to the Scottish National Museum. And Merlin’s bloody nose, stepping inside Draco glimpsed a massive dinosaur skeletton, like the one in the movie. Draco was delighted, and a little disappointed that he’d overlooked the dinosaur books in the shop—they’d have to go back. Excitedly he grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him towards the skeleton to have a closer look. It looked like a T-Rex.

Standing there marvelling at the size of its teeth and claws, Draco suddenly became very aware of Potter’s hand still in his. He hadn’t _meant_ to hold it, Harry’d just been moving so slow. Draco stared at the skeleton but no longer saw it, all he could think about was Potter’s fingers twined with his.

He was brought back to the world by Potter tugging at his hand. Had he been talking to him?

Potter gave him a strange look, ”Are you alright?”

”Uh, er, yeah, ” Draco carefully slipped his hand out of Harry’s pretending he needed to undo his scarf, ”just warm in here. Let’s see what else they have.”

Potter shrugged and followed, frowning, but didn’t say anything else.

After strolling around the museum for a while longer, their hands occasionally touching— _accidentally_ —Draco relaxed again. Frustrated he noted that he’d also have to go back for books on aeroplanes, telephones, and world history.

He told Harry so. Harry gave him an amused look and said, ”You know what, I’m amazed that you and Hermione aren’t best friends. It just seems wrong, somehow. Like, against the laws of nature.”

”Well, if she’ll ever forgive me we might just be.” Dreamily he added, ”I bet she knows loads of things about Muggle technology.”

Harry muttered something that sounded a lot like ”You and Mr Weasley could start a club.” But that seemed unlikely, so Draco ignored this and said, his stomach growling timely, ”What’s for dinner today, Potter?”

The days went by quickly, they went to see all the touristy places, and Harry made sure Draco would taste as much Muggle food as possible, some choices more popular than others. (Harry had tried to choose places with traditional cutlery, but once Draco had to use his hands, which in all honesty was a bit on the barbaric side. Even for Potter.)

Before Draco knew it it was a few minutes to midnight and he found himself standing next to Harry looking up to the beautiful castle towering over the city. Thousands of people surrounding them. It was cold, but not snowing, and Draco felt excited.

Draco’s fingers were cold, almost numb, and he could barely feel the glass he was holding. They’d been out for dinner, and Potter had, for once, looked very smart in a charcoal suit Draco had helped him pick out earlier that day.

”So, any resolutions for the new year, Potter?”

Harry thought for a bit before answering, ”Er, not really. You?”

Draco could have made a thousand and one but didn’t, he didn’t quite believe in them anyway. Silently he thought, _be braver,_ but out loud he said, ”Does going after —what did Dumbledore say? happiness, friendship, love?—count? Live to the fullest and all that?” He tried to sound casual, but he wasn’t sure he hadn’t stumbled on the ”love” part.

Potter looked at him, his eyes were intense, green boring into his. Draco was glad his hand was busy holding on to his Champagne glass and stuffed the other deep into his pocket, otherwise he’d reach out and brush the hair out of Potter’s forehead again.

The crowd surrounding them started counting down the seconds left of the old year—the old millennia. Eyes still on each other, Draco and Harry joined in.

Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one—

The world around them exploded with fireworks and shouts of HAPPY NEW YEAR. People were hugging and kissing and drinking Champagne.

Draco raised his glass to Harry’s, but before he had time to wish him a Happy New Year Potter leaned in and kissed him.

Like in Draco’s dream his lips were soft and warm, despite the cold. They tasted of champagne and the treacle tart he’d had for dessert. For a second he didn’t move (because Potter was kissing him) didn’t know what to do (because Potter was kissing him) but then Draco relaxed into the kiss, and found he was no longer freezing (because Potter was kissing him).

”Happy New Year,” Potter whispered, lips still against Draco’s, and took a step back, eyeing him nervously. Draco bit his lip and thought he probably looked every bit as nervous as Harry, if not more. But Potter must have seen something in Draco’s expression because his face split into a wide grin and he stepped closer again.

Harry’s mouth was hot on his, and grew steadily hotter. His hand came up to cup Draco’s face,thumb running along his jaw, fingers curling around the back of his neck.

Draco unclenched the hand in his pocket and lifted it to Potter’s hair, running his fingers through it, suddenly annoyed at the glass he was holding—he’d very much like to run both his hands through Harry’s hair, twist his fingers in it, use it to pull him even closer.

Pink-cheeked and breathless they eventually came up for air, lips tender and swollen from teeth and stubble.

Swallowing hard Draco raised his glass again, ”Happy New Year, Potter.” Unable to take their eyes off each other, unable to stop smiling, they clinked their glasses and finished their champagne.

Harry vanished their glasses and reached for Draco’s hand, their fingers intertwined.

Draco’s stomach fluttered expectantly at what the new millennia would bring, and bravelyleaned in for another kiss.


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a FYI: there's some super light hints at sexy-time in the first paragraphs, it's blink and you'll miss it and not worthy of an M rating (according to me, I'm thinking T is what you can find I YA books, but I might be wrong, and HAPPY to change it if anyone thinks I should...) Anyway, if that's not your thing, just scroll down to the first asterisks and you'll be safe.
> 
> Also, a massive thank you for sticking with me til the end, for the kudos and the comments, all the love and christmas cookies for you. May your holidays (whatever you celebrate/or not) be filled with fluffy fan fiction and even fluffier Weasley jumpers. 
> 
> <3

**Christmas Day, One year later**

Draco woke slowly, safely cocooned between soft pillows and a warm body. Strong arms were holding him close, and a nose was digging into the back of his neck. He sighed happily. Harry grunted a little in response, it sounded like ”Mrrxmhms”.

”What?”

Harry pulled his face away a little, leaving Draco’s neck cold and empty. He regretted asking.

”I said, Merry Christmas.” His head came back down, and punctuated his greeting with a string of light kisses starting behind Draco’s left ear and working its way down to his shoulder. Draco shivered.

It was Christmas morning and he wasn’t alone and miserable at the Manor. He was happy, and safe and in love.

Draco turned around to meet Harry’s lips with his own, soft and hot. ”Merry Christmas.”

They stayed under the warm duvet for a long time, trading lazy kisses and soft caresses. Naked skin pressed hotly against naked skin, lips trailing along every millimetre of it, coaxing moans and gasps and proclamations of love from slack, kiss-swollen mouths.

They moved together, a tangle of limbs—impossible to tell where one started and the other began—until shaking and spent, they fell back down against the pillows, breathing hard, and kissing harder.

***

Christmas was a time for family—the one you chose, the one you were born into, or both— and they were going to spend it with theirs. In the afternoon they were all meeting up at the Burrow, but the morning was their own. They’d cut this little piece of Christmas out for themselves. A chance to start their own traditions as a small family of two.

But Draco had seen the future, what could come to be, the possibilities they had. There could be more of them, children, grandchildren, cats, dogs, owls and pygmy puffs. Friends, cousins, aunts and uncles., if not by blood. (The one constant in his vision had been Harry.) But today it was just the two of them, and Draco thought it was perfect.

After the hours spent in bed (which Draco intended to make tradition, somehow he didn’t think Harry would mind) they padded down to their kitchen, in only their pyjamas and robes, and prepared breakfast together.

They ate in the living room, admiring their tree, eyeing the small pile of gifts under it. Draco didn’t expect any gifts, but was delighted to find a soft, knitted jumper from Mrs Weasley, and pulled it on, before opening the rest.

This year had been a year filled with adventures, some biggerthan others. Their newfound lust for life had perhaps made them a little spontaneous, but after that first kiss on New Years Eve Draco hadn’t been able to pace himself nor did he want to, because what it he didn’t make it past 22? What if he didn’t make it until the end of the month? Draco wanted to live, to have it all. And so he dove into it, heart-first.

Slowly they made their way back out into the world, starting by talking to Ron and Hermione. Seeing what a year in Australia and then travelling the world had done to them, they decided that a bit of distance from the UK would be a good place to start their healing, and when Hermione invited them to Australia and her parents’ house, they had accepted straight away.

That trip had given Harry a chance to re-connect with Ron and Hermione, and Draco a chance to get to know them anew. After, they travelled through Asia and back to Europe for the summer, they spent some time at the Malfoy house in France, having wine and cheese and endless kisses. They rented a muggle-scooter and drove around Italy. Went down to Greece, stayed on tiny islands and went swimming in the ocean every day. Indulged in greek mythology and stargazed.

At the end of summer Draco even got to see a real space shuttle and a launch at their trip to the States.

After eight months of travelling they came back to England, realising they didn’t want to live in their old homes. After eight months of spending every waking (and sleeping) hour together they also realised that they didn’t want to be apart. And so they’d bought a small house together down in Cornwall. It wasn’t big or fancy, but nor did it have any of the bagage of their old homes. They still held on to their houses, for when a time came when they were ready to either sell or move back in.

Draco loved their red brick house with all its chimneys and bay windows, with the garden and the ocean just beyond. The homely feeling they were creating together. Pictures from their travels adorning the walls, shelves filled with books and movies, forgotten cups of tea on every flat surface. 

He reached out and tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling him close.

***

The morning passed quickly and before they knew it they were throwing Floo-powder into the fire and calling out for the Burrow. Draco was nervous, knees practically shaking. Harry was, too. He hadn’t seen his family in over two years, shut them out and ignored them for as long as he could. Draco took his hand and squeezed it in I support.

But of course, neither of them needed have worried. Mrs Weasley greeted them with open arms and fed them cookies and warm, spiced cider as soon as they entered. The rest of the Weasleys hugged them, and thumped them enthusiastically on their backs. Even the Weaselette.

Draco assumed Ron and Hermione had kept the Weasleys in the loop and told them about the past two years of Harry’s life in as much detail as needed for them to both leave it alone and welcome Draco with such warmth.

They sat down in the living room, chatting about their travels and their new home. Ron and Hermione had bought a cottage further down the coast, and it was just close enough for them to apparate there, which meant they’d seen quite a bit of each other over the last months—Harry had been right, Draco and Hermione had become great friends, bonding over books and an insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Eventually George came to fetch everyone for dinner, and they all gathered around the table.

Draco looked at the dinner table and dimly remembered Ron’s advice to not eat for three days, an advice he now realised he should have taken. The table was full of food, roasted turkey, grilled ham, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, sprouts, baked and buttered carrots, meat pies. There were honey-baked apples and slices of oranges covered in melted chocolate and crispy nuts.

He ate until he couldn’t move, and looked on in awe as Ron loaded another plate for himself, and wolfed it down just as quickly.

Draco wished to undo the top button on his trousers, that he were wearing robes to cover it. But he wasn’t. He wished he’d looked up a clothes-stretching spellbefore coming here. 

After dinner Draco helped clear the table, and Mrs Weasley pulled him aside and said, ”Did you really see him? My Fred?” Tears were glistening in her eyes and Draco felt stumped. Finally he simply said, ”Yes.” Then, but unsure if he really should, he added, ”He seemed quite happy to be honest. Said being a ghost made him even better at pranking.”

Mrs Weasley laughed through her tears, ”Oh, that silly boy.”

Draco hesitated but said, ”And, he’s with Dumbledore. At least he was when he kept visiting me, when we were…well….”

Mrs Weasley smiled and reached up to pat his cheek, ”I’m happy you could save each other, you both look so happy.” With that she left him and he could hear her blow her nose loudly in the hallway.

After that they all gathered in the living room for eggnog and fudge, and Draco enthustiacally told Mr Weasley about all the Muggle things he’d seen and learned since he and Harry had been together, and told him in detail about the trip to Kennedy Space Centre.

”Oh, that reminds me,” he got the gift out of his bag and gave it to Arthur, ”Merry Christmas.”

Mr Weasley looked baffled, and then delighted as he opened the book on aeroplanes. And then happier still when Harry gave him a small, motorised model plane to build, and a pack of batteries for the control.

Sitting there surrounded by merry voices and idle chatter, Christmas music and the smell from the tree, Draco almost felt overwhelmed. He felt like part of a family again.

Potter had convinced him that he was allowed to miss his parents. It was hard, and shamefully Draco found that thinking of them as dead made it easier. Because the versions of them that he did miss were, weren’t they? Long gone. And anyway, they were in Azkaban for life, wouldn’t make it out alive. He’d even inherited everything already, the houses, the money…the guilt of their sins.

His thoughts were too gloomy for Christmas and combined with the lovely day he’d had, they left him with a bittersweet feeling.

He rested his head on Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s arm snaked around him, pulling him closer. Kissing his temple.

The past year had been full of firsts and new experiences for them both. They’d travelled the world together, gotten to know each other inside and out. Gotten to know themselves, too.

On a beach somewhere in Asia Potter had called him an idiot, and then told him that he bloody loved him. For the first time.

On a balcony in France Draco finally let go of his past, and took the first step towards covering his faded dark mark.

On a cold autumn day they’d stepped into an unknown kitchen that Draco had immediatelyrecognised from the flashes of his possible future. They’d bought the house instantly. Moved in the week after, and made love in every room and on every surface, promptly ignoring the boxes that needed unpacking.

It had been a year of kisses, and Draco had loved them all: long, slow, hot, passionate, desperate, tongues dancing or just lips pressed lightly against each other. Neck kisses and forehead kisses, kisses that said I need you naked, or I’ve missed you, or please stay, or I love you. Draco and Harry had shared all of them and Draco desperately wanted more.

***

_You look at them, your family, you can see them but they can’t see you. They’re happy in spite of all their scars and losses. You look at the ones you managed to save, think about how impossible it had seemed. Think about the man who had tasked you with it. He knew you’d succeed or he’d never put you up to it. And in exchange he granted you this: seeing them once a year, on Christmas Day, until the day death would inevitably bring you back together again._


End file.
